


The Greatest Weapon

by RiverDeNile



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Decisions, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Good Severus Snape, Harry Goes Through Shit, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Manipulative Dumbledore, Mental Health Issues, No Horcruxes, Post-Goblet of Fire, Psychic!Ginny, So does everyone else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 119,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverDeNile/pseuds/RiverDeNile
Summary: “I need your help, Professor.”After the death of Sirius Black and with the prophecy revealed to him, Harry decides to take things seriously. He must become a weapon capable of destroying Voldemort to be the saviour the world needs him to be -- and there is only one person who can help him achieve it: Severus Snape.Post-Goblet of Fire AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Sybill Trelawney predicted doom for Harry Potter. 

Harry wanted to think it was the same doom she’d been predicting since the beginning - the whiff of Voldemort that danced over his skin like a thick sheen of oil. The smell of death that couldn’t be washed from his hair. The despair and hopelessness that had somehow wormed its way bone-deep into his body. He was sixteen and he just wanted to kill Voldemort before Voldemort killed him. He wanted to protect his friends from the Death Eaters. He wanted to leave the world behind him in something resembling the kind of order and safety that he dreamed was possible. He expected to die. 

When Trelawney sought him out to say that word, doom, his lips had given a parody of a smile. She didn’t need the tea leaves or the cards or anything else to see the doom in his destiny. It was fairly obvious. He had smiled, because he had wanted to ask her, _Can you narrow the doom down for me? Who will die this year? What else could it be? Torture? Pain? Misery? Take your pick._

And so began his sixth year at Hogwarts.

 

Voldemort was in hiding. Harry hadn’t felt more than a twinge in his scar through the summer, but Voldemort’s minions were out in broad daylight, and no one knew quite what to make of it. Three witches had been killed while shopping in Diagon Alley. Three days later, a wizard family living on the outskirts of Muggle London had woken up to find the remains of a disembowelled Hungarian Horntail strewn about their front lawn - and most of the neighbourhood. A week later, a wizard in blood red robes was seen trespassing in St. Mungo’s. He apparated away before anyone could catch him, but the staff found seven smothered patients, all with family connections to aurors. At the same time, in three separate places, Death Eaters were seen moving about in groups, and the small towns they were spotted in were reported to have been burnt to cinders in the following weeks.

Hogwarts and the rest of the British wizarding world were placed on high alert. Businesses along Diagon Alley were closed as the owners moved on to less dangerous locations. The wizarding world bled over into the Muggles’ world as Aurors patrolled the whole of the country, and the Muggles’ news ran over with fear. Uncertainty ruled.

At Hogwarts, no one could be found to fill the empty Defence Against the Dark Arts position. In the new uncertainty, the teaching position seemed worse than cursed. Hogwarts had too great a connection to Voldemort, and yet, despite the wizarding world being put on standstill, Hogwarts continued. Defence lessons were closed, but each professor was urged to volunteer time in the now-official extracurricular DA lessons, and students were equally urged to take part. Life was encouraged to continue normally within the walls of Hogwarts, and, for the most part, the students were students. No defence professor meant no lessons and no homework, and that was fine by them. Very few seemed to have any clue that the world outside their safe school was as frozen in terror as it had been seventeen years ago. 

Harry knew. And he knew it was his fault. He knew the world was short of good fighters because of mistakes he’d made. He knew he wasn’t nearly strong enough to be the saviour the world expected him to be. He knew that nobody was safe and he knew trouble was coming. He didn’t need Trelawney to tell him that, and he didn’t need defence lessons to encourage him to learn.

He made the choice to change all by himself.

They wanted him to be captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team again that year, but he turned them down. Everyone came to try and talk him into it… his friends, his team mates, Professor McGonagall, Madam Hooch. He responded by dropping out of the team completely.

There was a certain part of him that regretted it, but he knew he didn’t have time for it anymore. It wasn’t productive. It had been fun, but Quidditch wasn’t going to help him defeat Voldemort. It would only take up his time. He had to be prepared. He didn’t understand why everyone didn’t see that. Surely at least Hermione could appreciate his newfound devotion to education. She had always insisted he take it more seriously. Well, now he was. He was taking it very seriously.

And if the price was a little unhappiness, then so be it. A person could live with unhappiness. He knew that well enough. 

 

He had never liked the dungeons. They were cold and damp and they smelled. The sun was a stranger there. The air was thick and stale. And, of course, they were home to Potions and their Master.

Professor Severus Snape. Who hated Harry and didn’t hide it. Who had hated Sirius Black and hadn’t hid it. Who had the mark of the Death Eaters on his arm and hid that under layers of black clothing. Who looked as dark and greasy as his reputation. Severus Snape, the only one who had never put The Boy Who Lived on a pedestal. The only one who didn’t put stock in the belief that Harry Potter had a destiny greater than others. 

The only one Harry felt comfortable around anymore. 

Even in his present mindset, he could see the irony of it.

He hesitated at the door for only a moment and then knocked firmly.

“Come in or go away!” Came the growl from within, so he pushed open the heavy door and walked in. Snape didn’t glance upward from the papers on his desk but said, “Mister Potter. To what do I owe this presumptuous visit?” 

At one time, Harry might have asked how Snape had known it was him, or might have made a quip about how Snape should be in Divinations instead, but the part of him that would have asked that question, even considered that question, had been burned away over the summer. Instead, he walked over to Snape’s desk and got to the point.

“I need your help, Professor.”

The quill stopped and hovered over the half-marked essay. A drop of ink quivered off the end and fell, splattering against the paper. Snape cursed under his breath and looked up, his annoyance plain in his sharp brows and dark eyes.

“You’ve made me spoil the paper, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor.”

Harry continued as if there had been no interruption. “People died because I wasn’t ready last Spring. I was naïve and stupid and unprepared.”

Snape’s mouth dropped open before curling into a scowl. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

Harry nodded. “I thought I had the luxury to be angry with you, Professor, to dislike you, but I don’t. You have knowledge I need in order to face the Death Eaters and, when the time comes again, to face Voldemort. I have come to ask you if you would be willing to teach me again. I promise it won’t be a waste of your time. I fully intend to take you and your lessons seriously.”

Snape’s mouth worked soundlessly. A year ago, Harry would have had to bite down an explosion of laughter until he’d joined his friends back in the Gryffindor tower, but it was a new year and so had new rules to live by. And in this new year, Snape was the new untouchable. His word was Harry’s new law.

“I can give you time to consider it, if you prefer,” he continued and watched Snape try to form a sentence. “Let me know your decision. I’d like to get started as soon as possible. Thanks for your time, Professor.”

He closed the door on his way out.

* * *

“I’m concerned about Mr. Potter, Albus…”

“Headmaster! Have you spoken to… oh, Professor Snape…” Hermione froze in her tracks and paled.

“Hermione,” Ron’s voice hissed from the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “You can’t just go… oh. Um. Hello Professor. Headmaster. Um. How’re… things?”

Dumbledore smiled at them over his half-moon lenses. “In answer to all your questions, I have not spoken to Harry recently, I am also concerned about him, and, generally, things have been rather well, thank you, although if you are referring specifically to Harry, things have been rather not well at all.” He eyed all three of them. “I would be interested to hear your sides of the story. If you wouldn’t mind, Severus, I would like to have Harry’s friends speak first.”

Ron’s eyes had gone blank in panic, but Hermione straightened and cleared her throat, avoiding Snape’s gaze. “Harry’s been off. He rarely speaks with us, or with anyone else for that matter. He’s quit Quidditch, he hasn’t joined our DA meetings at all, and he’s hardly eating in the Great Hall anymore, or even with _people_. I don’t actually know where he goes all the time, sir. Whenever we try to talk to him-”

“He tells us everything will be fine and that he’s doing it for us,” Ron said softly, eyes still wide. Snape turned his head to gaze at him along the length of his nose and Ron swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat. “He tells us… that… He gave us…”

In the corner, the phoenix Fawkes made a sympathetic noise. Hermione reached over and squeezed Ron’s hand. She looked up. “He gave us a sealed envelope. He told us to open it after it’s over. After he’s gone.” She looked over at Ron again, but his head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. “He’s been giving them to everyone.”

Dumbledore pulled out a white envelope from a drawer of his desk and placed it on the tabletop. As he touched his fingertip to the red wax seal, it sent off harmless red sparks. “This arrived this afternoon. By care of Hedwig.” He flipped it over. On the white paper was Dumbledore’s name, written in silver ink in Harry’s hand. “I could break the seal quite easily, actually. Harry has not put a great deal of effort into the spell, perhaps intending it to be a formality rather than anything more serious. While I could break the seal, I will not. Not without Harry’s permission. How each of you handle your letters is a choice you will have to make for yourselves.” Dumbledore turned his attention from one person to the next, and paused on Snape until the professor’s shoulders moved uncomfortably.

“I have not received an envelope, so that is not a choice I will need to make.” His lips twisted into a smile.“Mr. Potter has told me quite plainly what he thinks of me. I don’t believe a letter would be at all necessary.”

Dumbledore eyed him levelly. “Tell us what you and Harry have been up to, Severus.”

Ron and Hermione’s heads snapped up. 

Snape tasted bitterness on his tongue. “Mr. Potter came to ask me to continue our Occlumency lessons from last year. He also asked for surplus Defence lessons, private lessons, to prepare him for the inevitable. I agreed – after some consideration.”

“Since when?” Ron demanded.

Snape glared at him. “Since the beginning of the year, Mr. Weasley. If it is any of your concern.”

“I believe it is his concern, Severus. It is all of our concerns. Harry is in a vulnerable position right now. The death of his godfather has shaken him. We are his friends and his teachers. It is our job to protect him. Yes, even from himself.”

“I know, Headmaster,” Snape replied with some hesitancy. “That has been my... intention.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched into a small, shrewd smile. “I’m aware. And I appreciate your efforts. I’ll ask you to continue. However,” he turned his attention to Ron and Hermione, “I would ask you not to keep this struggle to yourself from now on, Severus. The four of us are a start, but there are more who have Harry’s best interests at heart. I believe Harry will need us all and more in order to overcome this darkness that has taken hold of him.”

“What can we do?” Ron asked in a small voice. “He barely speaks with me anymore. I rarely see him, and when I do, when I try to talk to him, he’s… He acts like…” he glanced at Snape and quickly looked away. “How… what can I do?”

“We keep an eye on him. We’re there if he needs us,” Hermione told him. “That’s all we can do. And we keep on with the DA meetings, because Harry will need to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Death Eaters one day, and there’s no way we’re going to let him do it alone.” She glanced up at Snape and hesitated.

He turned his eyes skyward and sighed. “Say it and be done.”

“You made things very difficult for him last year. You made him miserable. Do it again and I will hex you.”

“Will you, now?” He sneered, but she nodded sharply, uncowed, as Ron gaped beside her, his face becoming more pale by the second, making his freckles stand out in sharp contrast to his skin.

“Yes, I will.”

He paused as he considered her. She bore an expression not unlike Bellatrix at her most determined. 

“I have no intention to coddle the boy. I am not his father, or his godfather, or his relation of any kind and I have no intention to assume such a role. I acknowledge that my behaviour may have been somewhat splenetic, and that I did not necessarily provide a favourable environment for his education.” He gazed down at Hermione who looked back at him steadily. Ron wasn’t breathing and was growing green around the edges. Dumbledore hid a smile as the portraits lining his office watched the proceedings with visible interest. 

“I will do my utmost not to upset his delicate feelings in the future.”

She nodded. The portraits whispered to one another. “Good. See that you do.”

Snape held back a growl of irritation. He looked back at Dumbledore, ignoring the portraits of Gryffindors who grinned and nudged each other. “Will that be all?”

Dumbledore smiled slightly. “I didn’t call this meeting. You came to me. That leaves it up to you to determine if we are finished.”

Snape scowled. “Then that will, in fact, be all.” His robes snapped sharply as he turned and left the room.

* * *

Harry had never noticed how loud Hogwarts could be at all hours of the day. When the students were about, it was a chaotic mess of voices and sounds, and he found he couldn’t escape it, not entirely. They surrounded him with their interest and their disinterest, their concern and their indifference. It clung to him like sticky threads of spider silk. He could feel it on his skin, in his hair. He wanted to escape from them. 

The dungeons were the safest place. Few students willingly spent time there. He craved the darkness and oblivion of the underground lair. He wanted to blend into the rock and never emerge. He wanted to disappear like smoke in the wind.

Snape seemed to be the only one who understood. His friends… he knew they meant well, but he couldn’t take their concern. Snape was as caustic and disinterested as always. The only allowance he made for Harry was permitting him to work in his study, away from the hubbub and commotion of the upper castle, so long as Harry kept silent and out of the way. It was exactly what Harry needed. Snape’s silent presence wrapped around him like a security blanket, a protection from the forces of good and their need to ‘fix’ him. He didn’t want to be fixed. He just wanted to be left alone. Snape understood this.

He didn’t want to feel anymore. And since he’d decided to do away with his hatred of Snape, he was free to feel miraculously blank.

Of course, as luck had it, the longer he spent in Snape’s presence, the harder that freedom from emotions was to sustain. He no longer felt hatred, that was true, but now he felt something like gratitude. And possibly respect. And other things that were far too complicated for him to consider. 

He tried to push all the feelings down, but sometimes… Sometimes he would look up and find Snape watching him and his insides would clench in something like fear. Sometimes, during their Occlumency lessons, Snape would break through and touch his mind, and it felt good to not be alone inside his own head. Sometimes he would be the one to touch Snape’s mind, and the darkness, pain and uncertainty were familiar and comforting in a way. And twice, when he touched Snape’s mind, he found something hidden behind the darkness… He found longing and a surprisingly apprehensive need, and a young boy who had once been far too sensitive for his father’s liking, and a man who was far too sensitive for his own.

They never spoke of any of it, but they developed a silent understanding: an intimacy of shared secrets and embarrassments, of pain and longing.

By the time of the first visit to Hogsmead, as his friends laughed and spent their coins, Harry no longer dreamt of blending into rock and disappearing. He dreamt of disappearing into Snape.

* * *

“Harry Potter. Fancy seeing you here... Alone. Wandering about the dungeons, so close to Slytherin House. Lost, no doubt.” Draco snickered to his companions, as he emerged around the corner of a dimly lit hallway. Crabbe and Goyle grinned back in return. “We should help him find his way, wouldn’t you say? Only proper.”

He turned his eyes to look at Draco. The pale-haired boy had become a pale-haired young man, but very little else had changed. Crabbe and Goyle kept to his sides like stone-cut bookends, keeping Draco standing and in place. Behind the three of them, sliding around the corner to stand at Draco’s back, were two seventh years, Eric Prewett-Black and Malcolm Prewett, both distant relations of Draco’s, each with long, wheat-coloured hair, each tall and slim. The two older boys smirked at one another as they noticed Harry, and they crossed their arms over their chests. They looked back at Harry, sharp malice shining from their Slytherin eyes. Harry eyed them back, measuring the threat.

“I’m not lost. I’ve come to see Professor Snape.”

“And why would you do that, I wonder? You’ve been spending far too much time with him lately,” Draco said, but before he could say more, his cousins glanced at one another again and their slow smiles set off warning bells in Harry’s mind.

“If you’re so desperate for a Slytherin’s company, Potter, you needn’t bother the professor.” Their smiles were icy and jagged. The two young men stepped forward, tossing an arm around each of Crabbe and Goyle’s shoulders. “We’d be delighted to be of service to the Famous Harry Potter.”

Goyle frowned and asked, “We would?”

Malcolm chuckled. “Oh, yes, I think we would.” Eric laughed quietly, eyes hungry, watching his cousin with a slow smile. “Or have him be of service to us.”

Harry watched them, saw the confusion in Crabbe and Goyle, saw the cruelty brewing behind the older boys’ smiles. He looked at Draco and met his pale eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t back away, didn’t turn around. He did nothing.

Draco looked back at him, eyes steady, and for a moment, Harry saw something behind his cool gaze, but it was short-lived and quickly replaced with an unapologetic hardness. His hand came forward to grasp Harry’s chin firmly, fingertips bruising into flesh. “Delighted,” he murmured, weakly parroting of the older boy’s tone, and his cousins laughed. They nudged Crabbe and Goyle into motion and the boys moved with the practiced synchronization of unthinking minions.

Heavy hands fell on Harry’s shoulders and pressed. His knees buckled and he fell heavily to the stone ground. His kneecaps jarred against the floor and he bit his tongue, tasting copper down his throat. His eyes glared fire up at Draco, who smirked with cold eyes and stood to one side. He glanced at the cousins, who stood side-by-side, arms and hands brushing as they stared down at Harry. Crabbe and Goyle held him down, pinned his arms behind his back, their vice grips unbreakable, and Harry didn’t struggle against them. There was little point. 

Eric and Malcolm moved in tandem, sliding smoothly forward across the stone floor, hands moving to the clasps of their robes, pushing them aside as they worked at their belts and trousers. Harry didn’t watch. He glared up at Draco, and clamped his mouth shut, teeth grinding together.

“You Gryffindor boys are all the same, aren’t you, Potter? Just love to open those mouths of yours, use them for something proper, eh?” Belt buckles fell open with metallic clinks, echoing quietly in the deserted hall. “Bet that godfather of yours would be proud, you following in his footsteps like this. Sirius never was the proper lad, from what we’ve heard.” 

The older boys broke their gaze with Harry to look down at themselves as they opened their trousers, each stroking themselves lazily as they watched the other. Harry still didn’t look away from Draco’s pale eyes. The young man hadn’t yet moved either. The sounds made by the cousins were loud in the quiet of the darkened hallway.

“Uh, Draco?” Crabbe warned and Draco’s eyes flicked away from Harry’s, moving inches over to eye Crabbe questioningly. He and Goyle were watching the cousins, their eyes sparking with confused concern. This wasn’t the usual game plan. Draco looked at his cousins also, but the two boys were too involved in themselves for the moment to notice the others. He looked back at Harry as Crabbe issued a sharp inhale, and his eyes widened.

Blue ribbons of energy crackled from Harry, scorching Crabbe and Goyle’s palms. “Take your hands off me,” he said and the two boys cried out as the energy snaked up their arms hotly.

“Wild magic,” Draco gasped and took a stumbling step backward. Eric and Malcolm looked up and froze. “What do you think you’re doing, Potter?”

A slow, deep slither of a voice came from the darkness. “Defending himself, it would seem.”

“Professor!” Draco exclaimed. “We were just…”

“Yes, I saw. Mr. Goyle, Mr. Crabbe, unhand Mr. Potter. I would suggest you find your way back to your beds. Mr. Malfoy, you as well. Mr. Prewett and Mr. Prewett-Black, right your clothing and follow along.”

“Professor!” Malcolm exclaimed, drawing his robe about himself. “He’s a Gryffindor! How could you even think of…?”

“How could you?” He returned sharply. “My business with Mr. Potter is my own, and no concern of yours. Now, _be on your way_.”

Draco flicked his eyes at the still kneeling Harry and, as Harry glanced up at him, he spat at the ground. He turned and left, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels, each sparing a glance back at Snape before they disappeared into the darkness. Eric and Malcolm lingered for a moment, but finally, they too followed the others back to Slytherin House. The darkness of the dungeons closed around their retreating shapes.

“I could have handled them on my own,” Harry said, once the sound of footfalls disappeared, and he rose to his feet, his arms and legs quivering with fear he refused to feel. Shame settled low in his stomach. He hated that they had been able to put him in such a position. They had subdued him so easily, so quickly. He’d been powerless, nearly so.

Snape nodded, his mouth twisting into something close to a smile but it looked weak, even for him. “I don’t believe I said I was defending you, Mr. Potter. I have a duty to protect the members of my House, and you seemed on the edge of electrocuting them.”

Harry looked up at him and his own mouth quirked with an amusement he hadn’t felt in months. “It’s good you showed up when you did, then.”

Snape looked at him for a long while, his dark, unreadable eyes intense. Harry shifted, his sore knees twinging, and Snape blinked. “You came to see me for a reason?”

“I’ve finished my homework for the night. I thought we might run through an Occlumency lesson. If you have the time, sir.”

He looked down his nose at Harry for a long moment and then nodded. “Very well.”

Harry followed behind him silently, not intending to speak, but as they reached the entrance to Snape’s study, he found himself saying, “I’m sorry for using wild magic. I… I wasn’t thinking.”

Snape’s hand stopped on the door handle and he looked back at Harry. “No, of course you weren’t. It was a situation over which you had no control. The use of wild magic was an effort to _gain_ control.” He opened the door and they both walked into the room, the door swinging shut behind them. The fireplace burst into life with a glance from Snape and the teakettle hurriedly began to boil. Snape gestured for Harry to sit and he followed into an opposing chair. “You have had previous experiences of a lack of control, haven’t you?”

Harry’s eyes flickered as the memories surfaced.

Snape nodded. “And you will continue to experience such situations, to greater and greater degrees of subjugation. The Dark Lord particularly enjoys creating situations where one is left with few options.” His dark eyes flashed and he turned away, moving his attention to the squealing teakettle. “You must learn to find a measure of control in every situation, no matter how helpless it may seem. Create your own control, no matter how small.”

“Like with the wild magic?” In his mind’s eye, he pictured setting their pale hair alight. He needed for them to know they hadn’t beaten him.

Snape nodded. “But wild magic is dangerous, because it also lacks control.”

“Then how…”

“By _learning_ control, daft boy. Wild magic is uncontrolled, that is true, but it can be harnessed. That is the purpose of the wand, but when you haven’t access to your wand, you have to find other ways.”

“Such as…”

“Such as control of the mind and of the body. Magic is an outside force, harnessed by the wand. That is what students are taught, for the wand is the safest means of harnessing that power, but you can be the wand as well. You can be the harness. You simply need to learn control.”

Harry nodded slowly. He took the offered tea cup from Snape’s hand and turned it between his fingers. “Control over my mind and body, that is the next lesson?”

Snape snorted and sipped his tea. “Occlumency _is_ control over the mind, or have you not been paying attention?”

“I have,” Harry replied, and he turned these new ideas around in his mind. “But now I understand.”

Snape looked over at him and sighed. “Finally.”

* * *

“Harry?”

He sighed and looked up from the array of texts he had pilfered from the Restricted Section. Ron and Hermione stood across the long table. Ron shifted back and forth between two feet and Hermione's fingers twisted together. He slammed his book closed and pulled the others closer, away from their eyes.

“What?” He demanded sharply and they glanced at one another.

“Harry, we’re-”

“Look, I’m busy right now, Ron. Is this important?”

Hermione took a deep breath and blindly reached to grip Ron’s hand gently. “We’re worried about you, Harry. You’ve been keeping to yourself all this time and spending so much time alone, or with Professor Snape… we…”

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped and then sighed. He took a deep breath of his own and then looked at his friends again. “I’m fine. I’m just… studying. I have to, well, I have to learn more than I know and I have to do it quickly. Voldemort,” he watched them flinch, “might act any moment. I have to be ready this time. I have to.”

Hermione nodded. She peered over the table at his books, but he drew them closer again.

“What are you studying now? Do you need any help?”

“No,” he shot back and then shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I have to do this alone.”

They glanced at each other again and Ron sighed. “Do you need anything, mate? Uh, sandwich? Cuppa?”

“I’m fine. I just need to finish this,” he eyed them purposefully and they sighed again.

“Right. Well. We’ll… see you later then?”

He nodded, attention going back to the book in his lap. “Sure. Later.” He waited for them to finally leave and then reopened the book to the section he’d been focused on. He smiled grimly to himself and wondered what they would think if they knew he was studying the proper mechanics of _fellatio_.

Control, he told himself again and began reading again.

* * *

“Professor! Professor Snape! Yoohoo! Snaaape!”

After several minutes of ignoring the insufferable woman completely, he stopped dead in the middle of the hall, sending students scrambling to avoid bumping into him. He growled loudly, causing a small, blonde first-year to squeak and jump like a field mouse. Then he turned. Trelawney caught up to him in a waft of silk scarves and lavender incense.

She grinned at him widely, oblivious to his forbidding scowl.

“Congratulations, Professor.”

He growled again, under his breath. He didn’t have time for rubbish. “What are you on about, Trelawney?”

She waved a hand in the air, bracelets clicking. “You’re in love. I’m so pleased for you. A long time coming, isn’t it?”

Snape blinked at her, as did several students before they shook themselves and ran away. “Excuse me? I’m not in…” He cleared his throat and glanced around the hall. The few students who remained in the area doggedly kept their eyes away from him. He looked back at the confused woman, her pleased and radiant expression falling as she tuned into his response.

“You’re… not?” Her eyes flickered hesitantly, but then she smiled knowingly and said, “Then you will be.” She patted his arm, blind to the way he tensed and pulled away. “After all, it is the future I see, not the present. This is lovely. Simply lovely. I do love a happy ending.”

He rolled his eyes. Considering her obsession with doom and gloom, he doubted that last assertion was entirely truthful. 

“Trelawney, I am not in love,” his lips curled in a sneer at the words. “Nor will I be in love. And I would appreciate it, in both the present and the future, if you would keep yourself from my business.” He turned away, managing only a step, when a vice-like hand clamped over his forearm and yanked him back. He stared down into the woman’s wide, staring eyes. She opened her mouth and from it came a deep, vibrating voice, filled with power.

“He’d kill for you, Severus. If you’re not careful, the life he takes may be his own.”

Trelawney cackled and released his arm with a snap of her wrist. He stared after her as she wafted away down the long hallway. The sound of her sharp laughter echoed around him long after she’d gone.

* * *

Control. Control over body and mind. Harry stood in the dark dampness of the dungeon hallway and waited. He’d checked the Marauders’ map. They were coming.

Snape had left him in the study for a meeting with Dumbledore, and he wasn’t expected back for an hour at least. Plenty of time, Harry thought, to put his experiment to the test. It was an experiment in control. Not control over magic, but control over his body and his mind, his emotions and fears. Harry knew it was always a good idea to start small, but he was impatient. He wanted to prove, not to anyone else - not even to Snape, because Harry knew he would never tell Snape about this - but to himself, that he could do this, that he could face them again, and keep it on his own terms. He needed to prove they hadn't frightened him.

He checked the map one last time, and yes, Snape and Dumbledore were still in Dumbledore’s office, Snape pacing back and forth. And yes, there they were, Malcolm and Eric, the cousins, walking side-by-side, almost on top of each other. And coming closer with every step.

“Mischief managed,” Harry told the map and folded it up, tucking it away into an inner pocket of his robe. He straightened his clothing and his glasses, and leaned back against the wall. The hallway was dark and secluded. No one, rarely even Mrs. Norris, came down it. But the cousins did, and often. Harry had staked it out, surveying the length of it for the perfect spot to implement his experiment. Here, he’d found it. A shallow alcove with a low padded kneeling bench tucked away. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea what the alcove and bench had originally been used for, but he knew what he was going to use it for now.

The lantern light bobbed closer and he stepped away from the wall, standing in the middle of the hallway. His heart stuttered and his stomach clenched as a sharp stab of fear lanced through him, and he berated himself. He had to be strong. The circle of light touched him and the cousins came into view, eyeing him with surprise and dark pleasure.

“What have we here?” Malcolm asked, holding up the lantern. “A lost Gryffindor, separated from his pride. Should we return him?”

Eric smiled and stroked his fingertips down Malcolm’s arm. “Maybe he’d rather join our game.”

Harry didn’t smile. He didn’t feel capable. This was his experiment. It was his game. Time to prove he could control the situation this time around.

“You want to play?” He asked. “Then let’s play.” He gestured with his hand. “Both of you, into the alcove.”

They stopped. Eric’s fingers froze on Malcolm’s arm, but then Malcolm smiled a slow grin and looked at his cousin. “I like the sound of this new game. Care to change our plans, love?”

Eric smiled back, eyes on the unmoving Harry, and he slipped into the alcove. It was wide enough for the two of them to stand comfortably side-by-side, and when they stood entwined together as they did, it left more than enough room.

Harry turned to face them, but he didn’t step near them. His stomach turned over and he curled his hand into a fist at his side. “Robes open,” he ordered abruptly. “Get yourselves hard.”

Malcolm blinked, before a wide, pleased grin spread over his angular face. “Not a problem, Potter. We like the sound of this game. We like it a lot.”

“I don’t care,” Harry snapped. “Get on with it. Robes open, or this won’t happen.”

Eric looked at his cousin, and Malcolm nodded. “Let’s play, little boy.”

Harry narrowed his eyes and said nothing, but his plans for Malcolm made an abrupt change. He waited and watched as they stroked each other to hardness, each seemingly oblivious to Harry, but he knew they were very aware of him. 

“That’s enough of that,” he interrupted and surged toward them, palms hitting them flat in the chest and sending them hard against the stone. His hands immediately went down and he grasped their erections, which rehardened quickly after their momentary surprise. He stared them hard in the face as he toed the bench to their feet and sank to his knees.

It required more dexterity than Harry had expected, but holding a broomstick one-handed and reaching for an evasive Snitch had apparently well-prepared him for this moment. He grasped Malcolm’s cock firmly, remembering to stroke the underside with his thumb as he bent forward and slowly took in Eric’s erection. The head felt full and round against his tongue and a bitterness filled his mouth as he sank down over it. It throbbed against his tongue, and above him, Eric groaned and put a hand down into his hair.

He shook off the hand irritably and he pulled off and glared upwards.

“Don’t touch me. Understood?”

Eric nodded quickly, fingers clenching in mid-air. Malcolm glowered at Harry and pulled Eric closer to him to pass him a filthy, open-mouthed kiss while watching Harry.

Harry tightened his grip on Malcolm and mashed his thumb down on the frenulum, and Malcolm jerked back with a strangled yelp. Harry’s mouth curled in derision and he bent again to close his lips around the slick head of Eric’s cock. He sank down around it, feeling it fill his mouth and press against his tongue, feeling it bump against the roof of his mouth. He closed his free hand around the base of it to steady its movements, and he could feel the thrum of Eric’s blood beneath the thin surface of skin as it pulsed thickly in his grasp. 

He could do this, he decided, as he rose up and sank down again, as the thick head of the cock pulled over his tongue and against his lips. Above him, Eric moaned and scrabbled his hands to clutch at Malcolm’s robe, fisting the black material. Harry looked up at him and sneered. Look at him. What power did he have now? Harry could hurt him if he wanted to, could end this, could take it to completion, could do whatever he wanted.

Malcolm leaned over and grasped Eric’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat, and kissed him, shoving his tongue in and pulling his head closer to seal themselves together. Eric gave a muffled moan, and in Harry’s mouth, pulsed and Harry tasted a thick, salty, musky flavour.

He pulled off again with a wet pop. Eric pulled his mouth away to protest as his cock bobbed aimlessly in the air, and Harry scowled up at Malcolm. “We’re playing by my rules,” he said and grasped Malcolm’s bollocks in his fist and pulled down.

“ _FUC-_ ” Malcolm let out the beginnings of a scream before Eric muffled it with the palm of his hand. Harry took Malcolm as deep as he could, letting his teeth rest against the swollen skin before he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard. Malcolm’s cry echoed down the hall before Eric stuffed his tie into his cousin’s mouth and hushed him, whispering soothing endearments.

He kept his hand clutched around Malcolm’s bollocks, a stern warning, and returned to Eric, who groaned as he sank down again around his leaking erection. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it would be long now. Eric was leaking steadily into his mouth, filling it now with a salty, bitter taste, and his gasps were becoming short and quick. Eric’s free hand scrabbled at the stone wall, clutching at the sharp curves of the stone. Harry pulled up and dragged his tongue against the underside of the cock and Eric gasped loudly and flooded Harry’s mouth with a musky bitterness.

He choked and pulled off, coughing, and spat on the ground. He winced at himself, and then looked up at Eric, who had closed his eyes and was grasping weakly at the wall.

“Sit down.” Harry ordered him and Eric nodded weakly and slid down the wall. The tie pulled from Malcolm’s mouth and left a trail of spittle against Eric’s shirt.

He looked up at Malcolm, who had one hand threaded through Eric’s hair and the other braced against the stone wall. The older boy smirked and said, “My turn now?”

Harry glared up at him and pulled down again with the hand around Malcolm’s bollocks. Malcolm twitched, but his grin deepened and Harry gritted his teeth.

He bent forward, eyes holding Malcolm’s, and stretched out his tongue to trail it gently against the shiny head of Malcolm’s cock. He did this again and then again and then again until Malcolm was thrusting forward into empty space and against the retreating tip of Harry’s tongue. He fondled Malcolm’s bollocks, pressing his thumb gently between them and rolling them about his palm as he continued his slow and meticulous ministrations. He kept up eye contact and watched in satisfaction as Malcolm began to unravel and tremble, his eyes rolling upward, his mouth falling open.

Finally, Malcolm began to thrust deeper into Harry’s mouth and his gasps rolled together into a steady stream of bitten-off profanity, and he moaned, “I’m going to, Eric, I’m going to…”

And Harry pulled off and sat back and pulled his hands away.

Malcolm moaned and thrust in the empty space toward him, but Harry slid off the bench and stood up.

He would chastise himself later for everything he had done wrong, but now he stood, wiping the bitter taste from the edges of his mouth, and told Malcolm, “If you mention this to anyone, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”

And he walked away.

His legs shook.

He knew he’d do better the next time. Control, like anything else, took practice. Snape had taught him so.

* * *

As he put himself to bed that night, wishing Ron a distracted goodnight, he thought about how Snape would react if he knew about Harry’s extracurricular lesson plan. He couldn’t approve. No one would approve. It wasn’t the sort of thing anyone should play at. He could only imagine what Ron and Hermione would say. He felt the distance between them now as a physical thing, a thick boundary of safe space he had created to keep them apart from the danger and chaos of his life, but this was different. This wasn’t someone else causing chaos in his life; this was all him. He had made this choice. It had been him. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think it was unforgivable.

Hours ago, he’d thought the same way. It was something he had to do: he had to prove to them that they hadn’t scared him, prove that he could take what they gave and that he wouldn’t crumble before them. He had thought it was something he had to endure. If word of it got out people would talk, but he had so little time left, it couldn’t matter. He might have a year, at most, before Voldemort came for him, before they had to kill or be killed, before they had to resolve that prophecy and set the future of the entire world. 

He had once thought his life would proceed the way his parents would have wanted for him: a wife, children, a cozy home and a proud career, but he knew now that that life would never be his, regardless. He had little chance to survive long enough to realise anyone’s dreams and so he had never bothered to invent a dream of his own. Not sleeping in a cupboard had seemed like enough.

Safe behind the velvet curtains of his bed, his unachievable future took on a new, nebulous shape. It had been uncomfortable and awkward, and neither Malcolm nor Eric were anyone he wanted to touch again, but looking back… He could still feel the heaviness on his tongue, still taste the muskiness. He could remember the sounds he had pulled from them. He could remember the desperation on Malcolm’s face as he pulled away. Under very different circumstances, he might even have enjoyed himself.

But he hadn’t done it as well as he’d hoped to - he could think of a hundred ways he had failed. His hands had shook. His knees had trembled. His voice had broken. He had choked and coughed. But he could do it again. He could do it better. He could win next time. It wasn’t the worst task he’d set for himself over the years. And it was a power and he liked having that power, he thought as sleep curled around him. Snape might not approve of the how, but he had to agree with the power. 

As he clutched the thought of Snape close in his mind, Harry dreamed.

He was in the hall again, on his knees again, Malcolm and Eric gasping before him, and he knew Snape stood somewhere in the shadows, watching. And then Snape was there beside him, eyes on Harry, so close Harry could feel his heavy robes brushing against his back, against his arm, his hand warm against his neck. The cousins were gone, and Snape was bending down, lifting him to his feet. He smoothed a hand over Harry’s cheek and his eyes were very dark, and the hallway was gone. He was in Snape’s study, the bitter smell of potions hanging in the air, the scent of the leather chairs, the smell of the fire, and Malcolm and Eric were just a nightmare.

He was safe and Snape was there with him. He was folding his long, long arms around Harry, and holding him close. Harry was enclosed within the darkness and warmth of Snape’s black cloak, held tight against his body. He could smell him, he could feel his heartbeat. He was so safe.

Snape was running his hands along his back, up through his hair, along his neck, over his chest, everywhere. There was no fear. There was no need for control. He was safe.

He was touching Snape. His hands were inside Snape’s cloak, under his shirt, against his warm skin. He was so safe. Everything since the bright green light and his mother’s scream was a bad dream. There was only this warmth, this comfort, this safe space. This wonderful touching, this wonderful heartbeat, and these wonderful hands and dark, dark eyes.

He woke, and for a moment, it was as if the world was sunny and full of colour again. A pleasant ache warmed his belly and his skin tingled at the memory of Snape’s hands against him. Harry’s hands trailed sleepily lower, and from beyond the curtain of his bed, Seamus shouted, “Neville! Your blasted toad is in my bed again!” and Harry woke fully.

And then the heavy, grey weight of it all descended on him.

He had another day full of classes and nosy students before he could retreat to the safety of Snape’s study, but there, he would need his control now more than ever. He couldn’t risk Snape seeing these thoughts. Snape hated him and tolerated his intrusions only because Dumbledore insisted, and this… 

He couldn’t risk losing his one safe haven.

* * *

It had been a long afternoon and was now deep into the twilight of the evening. Dinner had come and gone, and all that remained was a basket of hardening rolls and a large pot of tea which muttered in annoyance every time it had to reheat itself. Harry sat bow-backed over a dusty tome, finger hovering near the corner of the page, and his mouth moved along the thick words. Snape sat at his desk with two tall piles of essays to mark. The ink had run dry on his quill and he had yet to notice.

Harry sat at an angle to him. He could watch the young man’s mouth moving as he followed the text. He could watch the gentle and careful way he turned each filament-thin page by the upper corner, the way he refrained from touching the old, yellowing paper so as to keep his finger grease from ruining the centuries-old text. He was being respectful of Snape’s book - a book he had certainly never allowed a student to touch previously. Snape wondered if that was an inherent trait in Harry, or if that was another element of his newly assumed personality.

The new personality disturbed him in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Harry was calmer now, more focused, studious, respectful. He didn’t speak back, didn’t crack jokes, didn’t even smile. At least, not as Harry had smiled in years previous. Harry no longer had the smile that sparked uneasily in Snape’s memory and reminded him of that same smile on another’s face, a memory touched with distant echoes of love and laughter. No, Harry didn’t smile that smile anymore, only a new cold and bitter smile, one that pulled unnaturally at his mouth and frosted his eyes. There was no more time wasted on Quidditch. He didn’t whisper to his friends in class. He didn’t drift off into a daydream while he should be working. He was the student Snape had always wanted. He was no trouble. He was perfect.

Snape’s skin itched while he was around him. He wanted Harry back. The one who caused trouble and laughed until his eyes sparkled. He wanted to see the Harry who would sneak out past curfew, and challenge him in class. Who would answer his sneers with snark. Who would get excited over Quidditch, or prop his chin up in class and drift away with that wistful, dreamy look. He wanted the Harry back who could find joy in even the most trying of times.

What was wrong with him? Snape had once actively loathed everything that had identified Harry as Lily and James’ son. He could see Lily in Harry’s eyes and in his smile and his laughter, but from James’ face, that insufferable prick of a man. James’ disdain shining at him from his childhood friend’s kind eyes, James’ pettiness, James’ cruelty.

But they had moved beyond that now, he thought. He could see Harry for what he was, or what he should be, what he ought to be if he would only let himself again. Snape wanted to see it again; in fact, he craved it. Merlin’s tangled beard, even that half-smile out of the corner of Harry’s mouth would suffice. Something to prove that Harry was, in fact, still Harry and not just the tool he claimed to be. Harry as the weapon in training disturbed him in a way nothing ever had before.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked suddenly, voice breaking the silence. Harry turned to look at him and Snape scowled deeply to hide his embarrassment over the question. “Why devote yourself so intensely to being this ‘weapon’ you speak of?”

Harry’s face was pale in the torchlight, with dark hollows under his inscrutable eyes. His cheekbones stood out prominently as the light cast long shadows against his cheeks. He had lost weight, Snape noted, but at the scrutiny, Harry averted his gaze from Snape’s.

“I don’t have time to be foolish,” he answered patiently, as if the question was an ill-timed test. “More people will die if I’m foolish. They depend on me. I have to become what they expect me to be. What they believe I am.”

“Which is?”

The cold smile appeared. “I’m The Boy Who Lived. They expect me to save them. It’s my destiny.” He sat back in the wooden chair, which creaked ominously beneath him, and he glanced back at Snape once again. “Look at Merlin or at all the prophets from muggle history - they were all Boys Who Lived, all with destinies. They were never stupid, never foolish. Their followers expected a certain role from them, and they delivered. That’s what I have to do.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a messiah?”

Bitter smile. “I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m anyone’s messiah. No one prays to me, or I certainly hope they don’t. But people _do_ base their faith around me, and it’s up to me to live up to that faith. I don’t belong to myself anymore. I belong to them. They own me.” He shrugged lightly, dismissively. “I…” his voice stuttered and his features hardened, his lips curling in disdain. “I don’t have a right to… to my emotions. I’m a weapon, a tool, to be used for one purpose only. It’s better this way. It’s how it should be.”

His eyes lost focus as he gazed toward the high, dark windows and then he shrugged. “Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned back to the book and resumed his work.

Snape could feel the ugly taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. Dumbledore needed to hear this. The Headmaster had to know that the time to intervene had long past. Snape swallowed thickly and said, putting more than a touch of annoyance and irritation in his voice, “I have business with the Headmaster and have wasted enough time on minding you this evening. If you intend to continue your studies...”

“I know,” Harry said without lifting his head. “If you aren’t back before I’m done, I’ll lock the door behind me.”

“See that you do,” Snape retorted, sharper than he had intended, but Harry did not react. He paused momentarily in the doorway, glancing at the bent body, the hunched, curved spine, and then shut the door firmly behind him.

* * *

He waited with his back pressed against the cold stone. His hands were balled in tight fists against the tremors he couldn’t manage to calm. His knees were locked to keep himself standing tall. When his breath came, it stuttered in his throat, like a butterfly trapped beneath a bell jar.

The air smelled stale, for all that this particular hallway, this particular alcove, had seen more use than perhaps ever before.

Someone would eventually come to find him. Nearly every night he stood here and waited. Word had travelled through Slytherin House and they knew where to look for him. They knew where to find him. They knew what he offered.

He pressed his fists back tightly against the stone wall, until small stones flaked off from its aging surface and imprinted into his skin. The pain of it was welcome. It helped to calm his thoughts and helped to focus his mind. He was here to learn control and he was still here because he had as yet failed to do so. He couldn’t manage to control his feelings and his thoughts. They betrayed him. They whispered things to him, about how this was wrong, how he was wrong, but he was determined to master this. 

This was only sex, he told himself, he told the tremor in his arms and the clutch in his belly. People did this all the time. This was normal. If he couldn’t manage to control himself in the face of this, what hope did he have against something worse, against real fear and terror and pain? Death Eaters were known to torture, and he had to figure out how to be in control then, when it really mattered. 

Footsteps approached in the darkness and he tensed, turning his head toward the approaching light. It was typically the same people, and Malcolm and Eric had come back often. They didn’t seem to have suffered greatly from either their encounter with him or with Snape. After their attack on him, the professor had officially given them a week of detention with Filch for being “out of rooms after dark”, and unofficially he had turned his cruel eye on them, chastising them for every small infraction and every minor error, but they bore it all with identical smirks. Rumour had it that Snape had been paid a visit by a grim solicitor and given stern warnings from the boys’ fathers, both of whom were suspected Death Eaters.

Harry hated them. They did their best to make him feel soiled and insignificant, and he struggled to maintain his control with them, struggled to shut off his emotions and keep his calm center intact. They wanted to break him. He refused.

The flame of the lantern bobbed into view and Harry startled when two of the seventh year girls came into view. So far, only the boys had come down this hallway. He’d had to turn away the younger boys because that was not the sort of control he sought, but he hadn’t thought that any of the girls would come to find him.

“He _is_ here!” exclaimed the taller of the two, dark skinned with a thick braid of hair draped over her shoulder, and her friend smirked.

“They were whispering about it in the common room the other day,” she swept her eyes over Harry and raised one thin, pale eyebrow. “Had to see it for myself.”

Her eyes were like sharp slivers of blue glass, ready to worm beneath his skin and cut him to ribbons. Harry’s stomach lurched and he took a deep breath. This would not break him either.

* * *

When Ron and Hermione returned from their Christmas holidays, it was impossible for them to pretend that Harry hadn’t changed. Denial was no longer an option. This was not something that would easily be resolved. If the rumours were to be believed, their friend had gone beyond what they could reach.

Ron sat in Dumbledore’s office, deep in a plush chair, and all he could think about was the first time he and Harry had met. First, the brief meeting on the station platform, then the train ride itself. Harry bashfully showing his scar and admitting to being “ _the_ Harry Potter”. Buying the cartload of sweets because Ron had a hateful corned beef sandwich. Later, facing off against Draco as he defended his barely hours-long friend. Ron could remember the joy Harry had felt on discovering flying, the relief he’d felt at finding Hogwarts and having a place to belong. And even through everything, through Quirrell and Voldemort, through the Slytherin’s Heir episode, through Death Eaters, through the Tri-Wizard tournament, through everything, Harry had never lost that simple joy of experiencing what the world offered him.

Never had Ron imagined that Harry would accept this. Never in his wildest dream had he imagined he would find himself here: that he’d one day find out that his best friend was choosing to give random blowjobs to Slytherins out of a need to prove something - to whom? To himself? Ron didn’t even know how to react to the news. Harry had lost his mind. There was no other explanation. After everything that had happened, it must have been too much for Harry’s mind to take. He’d fallen off his rocker. He had one too many boggarts in his belfry. There could be no other explanation.

Hermione, he noticed ruefully, was not as trapped in shock as he was.

“Did you know he was doing this?” The top of her head came within a bare inch of Snape’s shoulders, but she had him pinned in place through sheer willpower. “You’re supposed to be looking after him! You’re supposed to be his teacher. How could you not know he was doing this? You’re the only one he spends any time with these days. If he’s doing anything, you’d know. And he’s doing it with Slytherins, with your House! How could you not have heard anything?”

Snape refused to be cowed. He stood with his arms tightly crossed over his chest and glared down at her. “No one in this room knew how Mr. Potter was spending his spare time. I can hardly be held to blame.”

Ron met Dumbledore’s gaze. The old man looked at him for a moment, his chin resting on his folded hands, and then he lifted his head and said, “I knew.”

Snape and Hermione turned to look at him as one, and before Snape could say a single word, Hermione turned her fury on the Headmaster.

“You _knew_? And you did nothing?”

Dumbledore shrugged. “It was his choice. I couldn’t interfere.”

Even Snape looked appalled. “You’re the Headmaster. You can interfere wherever you care to.”

Dumbledore shrugged again, a quick flick of his right shoulder. “I can order him not to engage in his current activity, but he’ll find another way of exerting control over himself. He thinks this control is necessary and ordering him away from this will only push him deeper into darker activities.”

Snape’s face drained of the little colour it possessed and he said in a strained, quiet voice, “Control?”

“Someone told Harry he needed to learn control over himself. Control over his mind and over his body, I believe it was. Harry, left to his own devices, has taken that advice and interpreted it in his own manner.” Dumbledore picked up a frosted cookie and turned it over once before taking a large bite out of it. He chewed for a moment and then said, “I don’t believe that I have any influence over Harry’s current mindset. That honour belongs only to one person, Severus.”

The room was held in a long, pregnant silence. Ron looked up at Snape. All colour had drained from the man’s stark face and he didn’t need to be Hermione to make the mental leap. “You’d better fix this,” he said, his voice louder than expected in the quiet room. Snape flinched at the sound of it, barely noticeable except for the slight sway of his hair around his face. Ron took a deep breath and told him, “If you did this, you’d better fix it.”

* * *

Snape watched from the shadows. He wanted to leave, rather desperately, actually, but unlike some other people, he hadn’t an invisibility cloak in which to hide. Any movement on his part would be immediately spotted by the couple. He had missed the opportune moment to step from the shadows, tarried a few seconds too long, and now it was too late.

A small voice in his head told him he didn’t have to watch, didn’t have to listen, shouldn’t be doing it in the first place, but his body didn’t listen. He watched with a morbid fascination, a masochistic inability to look away. The girl’s back was to him, but he could see the way she writhed, the way her spread legs quivered. Her fingers were in Harry’s hair, and Harry’s fingers were on her hips. They held each other close, locked in a carnal embrace. She finally spasmed, throwing back her head, a small, bitten off cry between her lips, and Harry raised his own face from between her thighs. She panted up at the ceiling, catching her breath, no doubt, waiting for her heart rate to slow, and then she looked back at Harry.

“Thanks,” Snape heard her say. Aurora Cartwithe, a seventh year Slytherin. He recognized her voice. “That was great.”

She pulled away from Harry and stood, smoothing down her skirt and robe and tucking her hair back into a messy parody of order. She looked down at Harry, still crouched on his knees. “You need me to…” She gestured vaguely at him, and he shook his head mutely. Snape saw the relief fall over her features. “Right then. Well. See you.”

She walked away without another word, leaving Harry on his knees in the darkness of the secluded hallway.

As soon as her steps retreated far enough to no longer be heard, Harry dropped forward, hands flat against the cold stone ground. His head dropped down. His shoulders shook.

Snape couldn’t remain hidden. His control slipped and his body betrayed him. He walked forward, slippered steps muted, and crouched by Harry’s side. His hand ended up on Harry’s back, stroking minutely.

Harry shuddered.

“Harry,” he said softly, coaxingly, as if he spoke to a wild animal, a bolting pony, an injured hawk.

His reaction was not what Snape would have expected, not that he had a good idea of what to expect as he had very little idea of what he himself did at the moment.

“Don’t!” Harry cried out. “Don’t call me that! I need to you to… Tell me how I’ve failed. Tell me I’m nothing to you. Don’t pity me. Don’t do that to me! I can’t do this without... You have to hate me.”

Snape stared at him, hand frozen on the tense back. “No,” he replied, unthinkingly. “I can’t. I don’t.”

Harry sobbed sharply. His head dropped back down. “Why?” He whispered. “Why not? I need you to.”

“Because,” Snape replied and ran his hand up his back to the narrow patch of pale skin between the dark robe and the midnight black hair. “Because, Harry Potter, it is the person I admire, not the weapon.”

Harry froze under his hand, and Snape did as well. His mind screamed at him, _Idiot. Now look what you’ve…_ Harry gasped suddenly and twisted under his hands. He wrapped his arms around Snape’s waist and pressed his face into Snape’s chest, shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed out his misery. Snape tensed for a moment before he did what he hadn’t allowed of himself since childhood. He released his tightly reined control, and he curled his taller body around Harry’s and buried his nose in Harry’s dark hair, and he covered him from the world within the safety of his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - my betas wanted to name this 1st chapter "Harry Potter and the Alcove of Bitter Emissions"


	2. Chapter 2

Harry paused in his reading to give his tired eyes a firm rub. They were still a bit gritty with sleep. He shifted on the familiar hard wooden library chair in an effort to find a more comfortable position, and then sighed and gave up. The chairs were clearly designed to discourage study and encourage back problems.

“Harry?” Came a tentative voice from behind him. He turned in his chair and looked back.

“Ginny.”

She hesitated, fingers curving around themselves. “Can I sit?” She asked.

He looked around the library, at the rows of empty tables. The late night had once been his safe haven, but he’d quickly discovered that the early morning was best. Few were awake at that hour, even among the faculty. Snape, for instance, prowled the night, but slept long into the morning. 

But he wasn’t avoiding Snape. He wasn’t avoiding anyone anymore. If they found him, spoke to him, he answered. He’d promised to try. Promised not to hide anymore. And during the day, that was exactly what he did, but sometimes it was just too much. That’s when he came here, to the library, in the wee hours of the morning. Not to hide, but to breathe. He just needed to breathe sometimes.

He had made a promise to Dumbledore, to Ron and Hermione. He would try.

He blinked and saw Ginny taking a hesitant step backward. “Sit,” he told her and pushed out a chair. “It’s okay.”

She hesitated another moment, clearly torn, but she sat. “I wanted to know… I just wanted to ask you…”

Harry sighed and sat back in the chair. “Go ahead. I’ll answer. Whatever you want to know.”

Ginny looked at him in surprise, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. “No, Harry, I –”

“What do you want, Ginny? Do you want to know if I’m gay? Because that wasn’t what it was about, even though, yeah, I think I am. Do you want to know why I really did it?”

She shook her head mutely.

He sighed again. “Then tell me. What do you want to know?”

“I wanted to know… I’m having trouble with Potions, and… Well, you’d been spending so much time with Snape. I just wanted… some help.” She looked down at her hands and shrugged one shoulder lightly. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” he said. And then he laughed. Ginny’s lips quirked hesitantly as she peeked up at him, and Harry grinned at her. “Ginny, I’m pants at Potions. The worst. I can barely make tea.”

“But,” she said, still with that uncertain smile. “You spent so much time with Snape…”

“I was reading his books and learning Occlumency or Defence. Sometimes I just sat there and did my homework, but never Potions. Because I’m rubbish at it. Really.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip and looked down. “That’s too bad.”

“Ginny,” he sighed. “If you want help with a potion, why don’t you go ask Snape for help? No one in the world knows more about potions than him.”

“Snape? I couldn’t! I mean, he’s…”

“He’s not so bad, Ginny.” He laughed at the look she gave him. “He isn’t.”

“Then…”

“What?”

She looked up at him. “Why aren’t you spending time with him anymore? Did Dumbledore order you not to? Because of the… you know, the thing.”

“Because I was sucking guys off in the dungeons when I was supposed to be studying with Snape?”

She flushed red and scowled at him.

“Ginny, I was… I made a mistake. A series of mistakes. I was… confused. But it wasn’t Snape’s fault. He really did try to help me, but I was… Dumbledore certainly hasn’t ordered me not to see him. He hasn’t ordered me not to do anything, actually. I haven’t been spending time with Snape because… well, he’s a professor. He has better things to do than baby-sit me.”

She eyed him hard and he looked away. 

“Well, I’ll just go ask Professor Snape for help then.”

“He’ll still be sleeping at this hour,” Harry told her.

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He flushed and looked away again.

“I don’t know _that_ way, Ginny.”

She gazed over at him, mutely, eyes seeing more than he wanted to tell. She, like most others, had little patience for Trelawney, but Divinations was Ginny’s particular strength. She had an uncanny and uncomfortable way of seeing things others didn’t. Finally she nodded. “Thanks, Harry. See you at breakfast.”

* * *

He ought to be grateful, Snape told himself. After all, in the beginning, he had let Harry into his study out of pity, or perhaps it had been compassion. Either way, it had been against his better judgement. He wasn’t the type to let anyone into his private study. He enjoyed his private time far too much to be comfortable with people trekking through his life and his space with such regularity. He wasn’t _Dumbledore_ , for Merlin’s sake.

So he ought to be grateful to have his study back to himself.

But he wasn’t.

It had been three weeks since what he liked to think of as “The Incident”. As unnameable as the Dark Lord in proper society. Though, truthfully, not much had happened. Harry had been left kneeling on the stone after young Miss Cartwithe had left, and Snape had lost control and held him. And perhaps he’d pressed his lips against Harry’s neck, but really, it hadn’t been a kiss. That wasn’t what he’d intended at all.

The morning after The Incident, Harry had come to his office and thanked him for his consideration, and apologized for taking up his time and space. He wasn’t going to bother him anymore, he’d said.

And he hadn’t. Harry hadn’t gone back to being the aggressively hostile pupil, but the almost friendly truce between the two of them seemed over. Harry was polite and respectful and removed. As it should be between a teacher and a pupil, of course.

He really ought to just be grateful. 

He glanced up as a knock sounded on his door, but it wasn’t Harry. Harry had a very distinctive knock. Or, perhaps it wasn’t so distinctive, but Snape had come to recognize it nonetheless. That wasn’t so odd, was it?

“Come in,” he called out gruffly and looked down at the paper he’d been trying to mark. He couldn’t remember what the topic of the paper was supposed to have been. This wasn’t like him. And over a student. It was ridiculous.

“Professor Snape?”

He looked up. “Miss Weasley. What can I do for you?”

She was looking at him with an uncomfortable intensity. His stomach clenched and his mind screamed at him that she knew, she knew, she _knew_ , but he shushed it. There was nothing to know.

“I’m having trouble with the potion you assigned yesterday, sir. I was hoping you could help me with it.”

He blinked and sat back in his chair. “That’s very brave of you, Miss Weasley. I don’t believe I have ever had a student come to me for help before.”

She smiled and sat down in the chairs across from his desk. “I have to confess that it wasn’t my first thought. Harry was the one to tell me to come here. He said that no one in the world knew more about potions than you did. I was… hesitant, but…” She smiled again. “He said you weren’t that bad.”

“Did he?” Snape pondered that.

“Yep.” She sat back in the chair and traced her fingers up and down the arms of the chair curiously, looking around the room as she did. “So, will you help me with my homework, professor?”

He looked over at her and steepled his fingers. “And if I were to tell you that all the help you need is in the text?”

She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “Harry told me you’re not so bad. For him to say that about you, sir, makes me believe that you won’t turn me down. In fact, I’m willing to believe you’re more than just a decent human being. If Harry likes you, you must be a good man.”

Snape blinked again and his mouth went dry. He reached over and drank down the rest of his forgotten tea, now a bitterly frigid concoction, but it was enough to wet his suddenly parched throat. _If Harry likes you…_ He told his overactive mind to shush and focused on the student before him. He was acting like a bloody randy teenager. He hadn’t been this uncontrolled since…

“Very well, I’ll help you.” He nodded his head toward the far corner, where a basic table was set with a small cauldron and an array of ingredients. It wasn’t enough for more complex potions, but more than enough to mix up a last-minute tincture for his own use. The homework potion he’d assigned for the fifth-years was an easy enough potion, without needing any complicated equipment, but despite that, it required a steady hand and a clear head while mixing the ingredients, for if it were not combined with knife-blade accuracy, the potion would fail. He suspected Ginny’s attempts had worsened with each failure. That was the beauty of the lesson, as far as he was concerned.

He walked over to the table and began pulling small bottles from the array. Ginny trailed after him, watching. He poured a clear stream of spring water into the cauldron and then tapped his wand along the edge of it, sending it into a slow, steady boil. He turned to look at the slight, redheaded girl. “These ingredients are fresh, I would have nothing less in my office, but if you aren’t certain, always perform a check. You can forgo that particular step for now.” He nodded down at the cauldron. “Begin making the potion, Miss Weasley, and do so slowly and methodically. I will observe and comment when necessary.”

She nodded, licked her lips, and stepped forward. Her hands shook at first, but as she worked, he watched her relax into the experiment. She had an aptitude for potions, when she paid careful attention to her actions, he thought, but that was similar to many other students who claimed to be terrible at Potions. Mr. Potter, for example. The man – the _boy_ , he corrected – didn’t have the patience for potions, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t focus if necessary. Snape had seen him do it time and time again, when faced with Voldemort or the various other challenges which sought him out. The Triwizard Tournament, for example. Snape had had to bite down on his cheek to keep from smiling when Harry had defeated the Hungarian Horntail. It was cleverly done and weighted to his strengths. He knew Potter could focus. Potions simply weren’t what he chose to focus upon.

Ginny lifted a small vial of the liquid, holding it up to the light to check the colour, tongue trapped between her teeth, and she added one of the final ingredients to the mixture, stirring widdershins three times before testing it again.

Snape stood back, watching her, considering. He knew it had been a popular rumour around the school for several years that pinned Ginny and Harry together. Certainly, there was a connection between the two, Ginny being a Weasley and Harry being an honorary member of that particular clan, and they had the connection of having both fallen prey to Tom Riddle. He supposed he also had that particular connection with the two of them. He wondered if the rumour was just that, a rumour, or if perhaps it was more. She certainly was an attractive enough child, not that he was the best to judge such things, and she and Harry seemed close, close enough that she trusted his opinion enough to risk the wrath of Severus Snape.

He smiled to himself at that, at the same time hoping that Harry wouldn’t continue to tell others that he wasn’t quite as unapproachable as the students believed. He had crafted a persona for himself, and he could honestly only barely tolerate the majority of the students, and he especially didn’t like them traipsing through his office. He wondered if he should have a word with Harry, but then immediately dismissed the idea. No, all ‘words’ with Harry had been cut off after The Incident. Harry had stepped back and Snape let him. As was for the best. Why a man, a _boy_ , like Harry would look twice at Snape… It was preposterous to have –

“Hey! It worked!”

His eyes flicked down to Ginny and the small vial she held aloft in the candle-soft yellow light. The liquid was a brilliant blue colour, and the bottom of the vial pulsed white. He smiled.

“Excellent work, Miss Weasley. It would seem that you’ve disturbed my afternoon for nothing.”

She stared at him for a half-second, then shook herself and looked down at the vial. “I couldn’t do it before. Not at all. It just kept getting worse and worse.” She looked up at him again. “Thank you.”

“For? I did nothing.”

“For…” She shrugged. “Making me slow down and pay attention to what I was doing. It was…” She was looking at him again, as she had when she first walked in. She set the vial down on the tabletop and considered him. She ran her eyes up and down him and Snape had to fight down a sudden blush. She saw too much, this girl. 

She smiled at him. “I can see why Harry changed his mind about you. I can see why he likes you. You really _are_ a good man, aren’t you?”

He scowled at her, but it missed its usual heat. “I would appreciate if you didn’t spread about unnecessary rumours.”

Ginny grinned and tapped her nose. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.” She looked at him again, seeing past his carefully wrought defences. Had the Dark Lord thought to recruit the girl rather than use her as a vessel, they would all be in danger, Snape thought. She smiled again and then nodded.

“Thanks again, professor. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

He nodded and said nothing, nor did he watch her leave. Every internal self-preservation alarm he’d developed over the years was currently ringing like a Sunday morning church bell. He did not trust easily, but he would have to trust a Weasley now. The thought did nothing to improve his mood for the evening.

* * *

“Oi! Harry!” Ron jogged up beside him and matched his long legged stride with his friend’s. “You look like shits, mate.”

Harry smiled and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Thanks, Ron. Want to push me down the stairs too?”

Ron snickered. “Na, thanks for the offer though. But you gonna tell me what’s got you looking like your best-friend’s died?” Ron narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re not planning on killing me, are you?”

“Not today, no.” Harry shook his head and looked away, looking at the new spring growth sprouting around them. The cherry trees would blossom soon. Sprout would soon be out on rickety ladders, snipping flowered branches to collect cherry blossom essence for Snape. A primary ingredient in love potions. And in sedatives.

“What?” Ron asked. “You got that look again. You thinking about… you know. The Thing?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone have to call it that? It’s bad enough the whole school knows, but having all of you calling it ‘The Thing’ doesn’t help either, you know.”

“Well? What do you want me to call it?”

“Don’t call it anything. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I was confused and I just needed… something. I looked in the wrong place, is all. And no, I wasn’t thinking about it. I was… Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Hey, Harry,” Ron stopped and put his hand on Harry’s elbow to stop him. The crowds had thinned and they were both left in the courtyard with only a handful of stragglers sitting on the benches across the way. “Look, mate. I don’t want you doing it again, got it? I don’t care what you got to say, just don’t keep it all locked up again. I don’t want you running off in the middle of the night to start shagging…” he waved his hand in the air, looking for a name, “…Filch.”

Harry smacked him. “Ron!”

Ron chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. “Look, the point is, I’m not gonna judge you for nothing. Got it? Hell, even if you do want to shag Filch, that’s all fine and good. It’s damned strange, and rather disgusting, actually, but whatever. Whatever you tell me, and I mean that, I’ll be fine with it. May take me a second or two to think about it, but really. I’ll be fine.”

Harry looked at him. “Really? Anything?”

“Anything. Just as long as you don’t want to join up with What’s His Name, or… I don’t know… shag _me_ , or Hermione. Um… or dead people. That’s just icky.”

Harry grinned despite himself. He looked away again and then motioned for them to sit on a bench.

“Go on. Get it off your chest.”

Rolling his eyes again, Harry scowled at him. “I’m getting there.” He sighed and looked down at his hands. “Ron, what do you think of Snape?”

Ron frowned and thought about it. “I dunno. Never much liked him, you know that. You didn’t either. No one does, really, ‘cept maybe his Slytherins. And Dumbledore, I guess. But lately? I dunno. You hanging around him didn’t seem to do you much good, really, but he’s been pretty good to you since, not being a wanker in class or glaring at you all the time like he wants to skin you alive and watch you dance, so maybe he wasn’t such an arse all along. Maybe he really was looking out for you, since the beginning. Remember that first Quidditch match?” 

He shrugged and continued, “Ginny seems fine with him too, going to him for help with her Potions. She’s getting real good in that class too. Has nothing but good to say about him.” He shrugged again and looked up at Harry. “So, I dunno. Kinda, what’s the word, ambivalent, I guess. Why?”

Harry had watched his friend carefully, but he still didn’t have the answer he wanted. But Ron had said ‘anything’. “Because I think I’ve fallen for him.”

Ron blinked and then blinked again. “Fallen, as in…”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes grew wide and he looked away, staring off blankly. He looked back. “Really? Snape?”

Harry shrugged self-consciously. 

“All the way? Like you want to –”

“Shag him?” Harry cut in and watched Ron’s face turn a purplish shade. “Yeah, but it’s not just that. I think I kind of… love him, or something.” He sighed. “Look, you love Hermione, right? And it’s not just because you want to shag her?”

“Harry!” Ron looked scandalized for a moment and then considered. “Well, ya, I don’t just want to shag her. Though… uh, anyway. I want to, you know, be with her and… I dunno. Make her happy.”

“And even though she’s really annoying around examinations and when you’re trying not to write a paper, you still want to be with her.”

“Well…” Ron laughed at the look on Harry’s face. “I get your point. Yes, I still love her even when she’s being a prat.”

Harry nodded. “Well, that’s just it. I’ve tried to talk myself out of it, but there’s no point. I feel better when I’m near him. I want to figure out how to make him smile. I just… I’m in love with Snape.”

Ron shook his head bemusedly. “Well, bloody hell. You sure can pick ‘em, can’t you, Harry? What’s he got to say about it, then, eh?”

Harry blushed. “I haven’t said anything to him!”

“Why not?”

“Because! He’s a… teacher. And… why would he want _me_?”

Ron shot him a look. “You taken a look in the mirror lately? Even _I_ know you’re hotter than beans on toast.”

“Beans on…”

“Besides,” Ron interrupted with a look. “In class lately, Snape just, what’s the word for it, he smoulders at you. Like it’s eating him up inside that he can see you but can’t touch you.”

“Ron!”

“What? That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s the truth as far as I see it.”

“He’s our professor, Ron.”

Ron shrugged. “He’s not so much older, and age for wizards is all beside the point anyway. Dumbledore’s like, a million years old. _That_ would be weird, mate. Snape’s just, what, twenty years older? That’s nothing to wizards.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m not just talking about how old he is, Ron. He’s our professor. I’d get him in trouble.”

Ron shot him an odd look, then shook his head. “Keep forgetting you were raised by Muggles and all. We’re wizards, Harry. This is, well, normal. Hogwarts has always had a kind of… unwritten policy against it, but only because it happens a _lot_. Not even thirty years ago, we were married right out of school, generally. Sixteen was when we courted officially, marriage-like courting, and generally speaking, witches, and sometimes wizards too, would marry older. You know, they’ve got the knowledge and the money and the houses and the security and stuff. Professors were easy targets. You marry older, they help continue your education, and you make a bunch of babies to marry up, and so on. Most of the old families still do it. It’s falling out lately - Muggle influence likely, but it’s still not gone.”

At the skeptical look on Harry’s face, Ron grinned and poked him in the ribs, in precisely the spot Harry was most ticklish. Harry twitched away from the touch with a glare. “Look, if anyone ever said anything about it, some bloke from the Ministry would come down and you’d take a veritaserum and Snape would take a veritaserum, and everything would be fine. They’d see it was all settled and fine between the two of you, and then they’d go have lunch or something. ‘Sides, you’re old enough now for it to be legal and all, and it’s not like the Dursleys can kick up a fuss, even if they ever find out.” He looked at Harry again and then sighed. “Look, you're really worried about it, talk to Dumbledore. He’ll tell you the same thing all over again.”

Harry flushed at the thought of telling Dumbledore that he wanted to sleep with Snape. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think I’d just embarrass myself in front of Snape, and then everyone else would find out, and I’ve got enough bloody things to be embarrassed about around here. Just… forget I said anything.”

“No way. You told me so now I know. Can’t take it back.” He shook his head fiercely. “I won’t tell anyone, you know me. ‘Sides, you going to want to talk to someone about it from time to time, and me’s better than nobody, right? Just think you’re missing out and all. I mean, _I_ wouldn’t want to shag Snape. He’s so… thin and pasty, like. Plus, you know, a bloke. But who doesn’t want a good shag? Probably. Plus, poor Snape, gotta look at you every day in class. Poor guy probably has to pull himself off just to sleep at night.”

“Ron!” Harry shoved him again, sending his friend into a fit of laughter.

“Sorry! Couldn’t help myself. You look so serious. Cheer up, mate. You could always just seduce him after we’re done here.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pushed his friend to his feet. “Thanks for all the help, Ron,” he muttered.

“Anytime, mate,” Ron laughed as they made their way back into the castle. “Anytime at all.”

* * *

Snape looked up in annoyance as someone’s cauldron exploded loudly with a cloud of rancid smelling yellow smoke. His eyes fell immediately on Longbottom, but the young man looked as surprised as the rest of them. The cloud parted and Snape’s eyebrows rose.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! What went wrong here?”

Harry blushed even as Ron hid his sniggers in the palm of his hand.

“Nothing, sir. I was just… I’m sorry.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. Harry wasn’t meeting his eyes and the flush along his cheeks was suspicious, not to mention the look Ron was shooting at him. It had been some time since the two of them had concocted some mischief under his nose, and he wasn’t about to let them get away with it, no matter his feelings for the man. _Boy_ , he corrected himself with irritation.

“Detention for the both of you, in my office, tomorrow afternoon. I will decide what to do with you then.” He stopped and stared as Harry flushed even hotter and Ron all but chewed through his hand in an effort not to laugh. “What _now_?”

Harry shook his head, his eyes frantic with mortification as he looked up at him.

Snape held his eyes, confused by the look held within their depths, but he only frowned and let it drop. “Ten points from Gryffindor. _Each_.” He swept back to the front of the room and glared at them all. “I hope there will be no further interruptions?”

* * *

Harry pushed Ron away as soon as they were out in the hallway, but Ron just collapsed into a fit of laughter against Hermione who looked at the two of them as if they were insane. 

“What was that all about?” She asked, but the two just shook their heads, Harry mute with anger and Ron mute with laughter. She sighed and pushed Ron away. He fell against the wall and slid down it, holding his sides. She stared down at him and looked at Harry.

“Harry, what is the dimwit laughing about now? What happened with the potion? Did you confuse the order again? Because I told you that the goosegrass came before –”

“That’s not it,” Harry interrupted her. He flushed, with anger or with embarrassment, she couldn’t be sure, and he glanced around the crowded hallway before answering. “Come on,” he pulled Ron to his feet. “Snap out of it. Come on.”

He led them down the hallway and then sharply around a cobwebbed corner. The secluded hallway was thick with dust and light filtered feebly through the thick cobwebs, leaving the hall pitch dark. They each lit their wands and the bluish light cast their faces in odd relief.

Harry looked at Hermione, who stared back at him, intrigued by the mystery. “I told Ron and now look at him. Getting me detention,” Ron burst into renewed laughter and Harry shot him a disgusted look. “So if I tell you, Hermione, do you promise to be a little more mature about it than your boyfriend?”

She nodded seriously, eyes wide, and Harry sighed.

“Fine. Here it is, the big joke. I fancy Snape.”

She blinked and looked at Ron who was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Tears ran down his face, leaving him red-faced and blotchy. She looked back at Harry and repeated, “Snape.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Yes, Snape. I more than fancy him. And Ron is laughing at me because I happened to stupidly share a particular fantasy with him last week about detention with Snape. Ron teased me about it in class and now I have detention with Snape.” He glared at his friend. “Which means I have to kill him, of course.”

Hermione nodded and turned to glare at her boyfriend. “I’ll join you. I know a particularly effective little curse that I think I might like to try…”

“I’m sorry! It’s just so funny!”

Harry growled. “Yes, well. You have detention too. So you had better hope that detention goes a little more normal and a little less fantasy.”

Ron turned a greenish shade and swallowed. “Yeah, mate. I’m with you on that.”

Hermione shook her head and looked back at Harry. “You really fancy Snape? Are you going to… do something about it?”

“No,” Harry replied immediately and Ron sighed.

“Tell him! You both could use a good shag, I say.” 

“Ron!” Hermione and Harry exclaimed and he raised his hands in the air, the blue light from his wand fluttering above his head like a fairy, casting shadows over them.

“Fine!” Ron replied. “But it’s true, mate. I’m getting sick and bloody tired of watching the two of you stare at each other all day. Either get to it or get over it. And that goes double for him. It’s right pervy the way he watches you all the time, I say.”

“Ron…”

“Right, right. My mouth is sealed. Not another word.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Hermione shook her head and asked, “Harry, didn’t you go to Snape in the first place to ask for help? For training against… you-know-who? Are you still doing that?”

Harry opened his mouth and then shut it with a snap. He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because…” He shrugged.

She looked at him. “Look, Harry. This is too important, isn’t it? In the beginning, didn’t you say you weren’t going to let your hate for him stand in the way of your training? Because the information he can give you is more important than your feelings?”

Harry nodded, looking at the ground.

“Well, don’t you think it still applies now? Isn’t it still more important than your feelings? You can’t let… let love stand in your way any more than you could let hate. Right? If you’re all that stands in the way between us and…” She waved her hand in the air, “…don’t you think you should be working seriously at it? All the time?”

He sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I know. I’ll… talk to him.” He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, scattering any semblance of order. He looked over at Ron and then said, “Tomorrow. Today, let’s get down to the Great Hall. I’m hungry.”

Ron nodded, leading the way, his lit wand bobbing along. “I could eat a hippogriff. I hope they have those little cheese things they had yesterday.” He took off and Harry and Hermione glanced at each other before dashing after him.

The hall stood dark and silent for a breath, and then a wand flickered to light, turning Draco’s pale hair an eerie blue. Crabbe and Goyle stepped away from the wall and looked after the retreating lights. They looked to Draco and waited.

He shook his head, eyes shining in the light. “Neither of you heard a word they said, understood?”

They nodded. “Got it,” Goyle replied and scratched his ear. Crabbe relaxed back against the wall again and picked at his teeth with his thumbnail.

“Good,” Draco said slowly. “I’ll handle this.”

* * *

Harry looked up from the extra-large cauldron, which smelled unpleasantly of charred milk and which was far too large for him to scrub comfortably, to glance across the room at Snape. Snape sat behind his desk, his raven-feathered quill waving furiously through the air as he marked a knee-high pile of papers. The man had barely glanced at Harry and Ron as they’d come into the room, and, in as few words as possible, had pointed them to a corner of the classroom piled high with cauldrons for them to scrub. Snape had been there since, behind his desk, like an angry shadow, and Harry wondered what had changed since the last time he’d been in such close quarters with the man. He wasn’t just ignoring him – he was angrily ignoring him. 

He frowned down at the cauldron as the thought came to him. Why was Snape ignoring him? Was he still angry over what Harry had done? Was he embarrassed about finding Harry in the corridor? Was he embarrassed by the way Harry had clung to him afterwards? It was understandable, Harry supposed. Snape didn’t like people, so he certainly wouldn’t like people sobbing down the back of his robe and clinging to him. But…

Ron nudged him and Harry looked over at him questioningly. Ron made a scrubbing motion and raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed and nodded, going back to work. His elbow and shoulder were starting to hurt, and they still had more than enough cauldrons waiting for them to move on to. And when it was all over, he had to speak with Snape, and once again ask for his help. His stomach clenched at the thought.

Occlumency. He knew now that it was something he needed, that if he were ever to come within fighting distance with Voldemort again, as he undoubtedly would, he needed to be able to protect his mind. But it also meant that Snape would see his every thought while teaching him to mask them from others. His _every_ thought.

But Snape was a professor, Harry told himself as he scrubbed the cauldron’s bottom, leaning half-in, half-out of the giant pot, feet braced to keep himself from ending bottom up in the cauldron. Snape wouldn’t hold his thoughts against him, even if those thoughts prominently featured Snape in various stages of dress and undress. Snape would ignore them. Surely he was used to featuring in a fantasy or two. Harry sucked in a breath as the image of the man danced before his spinning head. 

Snape was dark and intense and… not handsome, but striking, certainly. And he understood. He wasn’t like anyone else. He took all of this seriously. Those Harry’s own age had no idea about the real danger of Voldemort, and even Dumbledore seemed to minimize the threat, as if the worse danger was causing a panic. As if it all might blow over anyway. And no one else had had the same experience with Voldemort that Snape had. Harry still had little idea about the extent of Snape’s experiences, but Harry knew it hadn’t been a happy time. They had a shared intimacy with Voldemort’s cruelty. Few others could completely understand. 

He wriggled back to his feet, brushing sweat from his forehead as he breathed in deeply, feeling light-headed. He had long ago shed his robe and jumper, and now his shirt was clinging to him uncomfortably. He needed a bath. He probably stank, not that Ron would say a word, seeing as they both stank, but Snape, with that nose of his… He glanced back at Snape and froze as their eyes met and held. Snape’s eyes were dark and guilty, as if he’d been caught at something forbidden. Harry’s skin felt electric, and he could almost feel the air crackling. His breath clutched in his chest. He couldn’t look away.

Ron nudged him and he turned his head automatically. Then, seeing only his friend’s smirking face, glanced back, but Snape had already returned to his work, hair fallen in a heavy curtain around his face. Harry looked back at Ron and glared at him.

Ron grinned, even as he worked. “Have your fantasy detentions on your own time, mate,” he whispered. “Leave me out of it.”

“I wasn’t…!”

“Yes, you were, Harry, and so was he,” Ron nodded his head toward Snape. “If I weren’t here, you’d be all over each other.”

Harry flushed and looked down at the cauldron. “No, we wouldn’t.”

Ron chuckled softly. “You’re probably right. You’re both such pansies about it.”

Harry shot him an amused look as he crouched down, ready to continue scrubbing. “We’re pansies about a gay relationship? Shocker.”

“You know what I mean, Harry. The space between the two of you is probably the safest place to be, since neither of you’ve got the bollocks to step into it.”

“Ron…”

“You have time for conversation?” Snape asked, standing directly behind Harry’s curved back. Harry froze and glanced up at him. Snape surveyed him down the length of his nose. “Perhaps I haven’t set aside enough work to occupy you.”

“We’re working, Professor. Look at the load we’ve cleaned,” Ron said defensively.

“Yes,” Snape said coolly. “I have been watching. _You_ , Mr. Weasley, have been working, surprisingly enough. However, Mr. Potter seems to be having trouble focusing on the task at hand. I believe we need to eliminate distractions in order to achieve any success from him.” Snape turned his hooded eyes toward Ron. “You may go, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes widened and he looked over at his friend, who shook his head imperceptibly, eyes white and wide.

“Mr. Weasley? Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said you may go.”

Ron slid to his feet and nodded. “Yes, sir.” He paused and bit his lip hard. “Don’t be too stiff with him, sir.” He choked at the look that flashed over both their faces and, without another moment’s hesitation, he ran from the room before he said another word.

Harry stared after his friend as he crouched on the floor. He couldn’t move. He might as well have been cursed with a binding spell. He wondered if he could do as Snape had told him, harness the magic with his own body and have the floor open up beneath him and let the cold earth swallow him.

Snape’s feet moved around him and Snape’s fingers came into view, touching the rim of the cauldron and coming away. “Do you intend to spend the evening in your current position, or have you considered the true marvel of mobility?”

Harry’s head dropped between his shoulders and the moment flashed back to him. He exhaled sharply and pushed up to his knees and then shot up. He took several steps back from the spot and brushed his hands frantically over his dusty knees. “I…” He began and stopped, wondering what he could say.

“Follow me,” Snape ordered him after an interminable second, and he walked away.

Harry looked after him and grabbed his jumper and robe before following, keeping several steps behind. Snape left the classroom, and as Harry left, the door swung shut with a flick of Snape’s hand and it locked. Snape led him down the corridor to where it branched, and there he paused before continuing. Harry didn’t say a word. The air was frigid against his sweat-soaked skin and he struggled into his robe as he tried to keep up with Snape’s long-legged pace. He was sure he looked like the cursed spider from third year defence class, but there was no one to see him either way.

Snape finally paused at the end of a hallway. Nestled into a small alcove sat a statue of a young girl, her arms curled around her knees and her chin resting in the crook of one elbow. Her eyes were slitted and a tiny smile hovered in the corner of her mouth, as if she held a secret she would never tell. She was covered in browning moss and from the tip of one elbow to the wall stretched a silvery spider web. Harry looked at her and then at Snape. 

“ _Lueur du jour_ ,” Snape said to the girl and her lips twitched before the panel opened, exposing a winding staircase leading down. Snape glanced back at Harry, eyes unreadable.

“That’s your…”

Snape nodded. “Would you…” He stopped and looked down the staircase. “A tea, perhaps?”

Harry looked down the staircase too and then back at Snape. He nodded. “Tea would be nice.”

Snape nodded again and led the way.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined Snape’s rooms looked like, but it wasn’t far off either. Two closed doors signalled further rooms, but it was the outer room that had his immediate attention. It was warmer than he’d thought, with a large fire waiting for them, casting waves of heat throughout the cozy room. One chair sat near the fireplace and beside it, a side table stacked with books and mugs and papers. Beside the table, resting on a pile of leather-bound books only slightly shorter than the table, sat a bottle of amber brandy, and the light from the fire turned it a golden, sparkling hue. A large woven carpet in an intricate pattern of reds and greens and blues stretched the length and breadth of the space. The second wing-backed chair sat lonely in a corner of the room, and it was covered in stray blankets and robes and pillows, as if someone had been trying to forget its very presence. Not far from it, against the wall, was a table piled high with more books. The room was a disorder, but a warm disorder, and even an inviting disorder. Harry had to get that second chair out from the corner.

“It’s nice,” he told Snape, unsure of his place and his role in the situation. He had his suspicions, but he was ready to have them shattered with one word from Snape.

Snape snorted and shed his robe with a twitch of his shoulders. Beneath it, he wore dark trousers and a black, mandarin-collared jacket, buttoned high to his neck. The slightest hint of a white shirt appeared at his throat and at his wrists. He tossed his robe at the wall and a wrought iron hook sprung from the stone to catch it. Harry raised an appreciative eyebrow and tried to do the same. His robe slid down the wall to puddle on the floor. Snape smirked. “The room is serviceable,” he said and pushed a kettle of water over the fire. He turned and looked at the single chair and froze.

Harry rolled his eyes and drew out his wand. The second chair lifted from its corner and slid from the wall, blankets and robes spilling out along the floor as it hovered its way across the room and settled beside the first. Harry smiled and settled himself into it, automatically drawing up his knees to curl into the wide seat. Snape gazed down at him for a moment before settling himself into his own chair and gazing into the fire.

Harry drummed his fingertips against the leather of the arm. He scanned his eyes over the pile of books beside him and picked up the topmost. It was a fairly new edition, with a glossy cover showing a changing picture of lush greens and misty valleys. _Potions of China_ , read the title, and Harry thumbed it open, finding several pages marked with bits of torn parchment. The pictures were all similarly lush and alive, and, as he thumbed through it, he found himself wondering if he would ever manage to survive long enough to travel somewhere alive and different, somewhere that had never heard the name Voldemort and Potter. He wondered if Snape had ever travelled. He wondered if Snape ever would travel. He hoped so.

“Spit it out, Potter.”

He turned his head to look at Snape. “What?”

“Whatever has been pressing on your mind all evening. I’ve promised both your friends and Albus that I would…” He made a face. “‘look out for you’ and I would hate to disappoint them all. Especially Miss Granger. She certainly knows how to put the sang-froid in a person.”

“That’s French.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You impress me daily, Mr. Potter.” He summoned a tea tray and poured the boiling water into the pot.

“Your password was French also, wasn’t it? What did it mean?”

Snape sighed and sat back into his chair. “Your education is dreadfully incomplete, Mr. Potter. Have you never consider expanding your linguistic knowledge?”

Harry scowled at him and Snape’s lips turned up in the corner. “My password, Lueur du jour. It means… I suppose, literally translated, it means ‘brightness of the day’, colloquially, other things. But it has no particular personal meaning, if that is your question. I choose passwords which no one would associate with me, and tend to favour languages other than Latin.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Wizards would do well to remember that there are other languages in the world besides English and Latin.”

“I had no idea that Professor Snape was such a champion of underdogs.”

“I am _not_ a champion of underdogs. I do, however, believe in diversity in one’s education.”

Harry nodded and looked down at the book still in his hands. The picture before him was of a waterfall crashing into a calm pool. There were only a few ripples across the pond. He read the caption, but it only spoke of herbs which grew along the edge of the pond and a local apothecary who used them following ancient tradition. “This book is nice,” he said, wondering at the surrealism of the moment. He was sitting in Snape’s quarters, talking about languages and books, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Nice pictures.”

“Hmm? Yes. It is a recent addition to my collection.”

“Collection?” Harry asked and it was then he noticed that the stack of books beside him focused entirely on China. His eyes widened even as he let his finger trail down the spines, reading the titles. One was propped against the base of the pile, tingling with preservation spells, and he picked it up. It was old, the pages yellowed and soft with use, and the few pictures were stationary, but it wasn’t a Muggle book. Unless the Muggle who had written it had believed himself to be a magician. It was filled with potion recipes, using herbs and oils he had never heard of before. He checked for a copyright date and found instead _For Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth’s Royal Collection_.

Harry looked up at Snape with wide, impressed eyes and found Snape watching him apprehensively.

“This is amazing,” Harry told him and looked at the pile of books again. “You have more?” He looked around the room.

Snape cleared his throat and nodded. “A… few.”

“Why so many?” Harry asked, still leafing through the ancient book.

He hesitated, drawing Harry’s attention back to him, and he said with a shrug, “No one single book contains a comprehensive enough collection of information for what I require.”

“Why don’t you write your own? You must be an expert, if you’ve read all these.”

Shrugging again, his pale face flushed with a hint of colour. “The subject interests me. China has a particularly long history of potions.”

Harry quirked a self-deprecating smile. “I wouldn’t know. Potions have never been my favourite subject.”

Snape shot him a look. “I am shocked, Mr. Potter. Here, I’ve been living under the misapprehension that you used Quidditch as a foil to hide your passion for potions.”

Rolling his eyes, he replaced the books to the pile and picked up the teapot, filling both cups and taking his own, blowing across the top. He took a tentative sip and burned his lips. Snape made a small sound and Harry looked up to find dark eyes watching his mouth. He licked his lips again, and Snape’s lips twitched.

“You could call me Harry, you know.”

Snape startled and looked up into his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Harry shrugged and blew over the tea again. “You don’t have to keep calling me ‘Mr. Potter’. You know more about me than anyone else does, even Ron, considering everything you’ve seen of my head. You can call me Harry…” Snape was already shaking his head, so Harry asked, “Why not? It’s not like you can’t, as a professor. Most of the other professors call me Harry.”

Snape shook his head again. “It would be… improper.”

“Why?” Harry asked again, a touch too strongly.

Snape made a face and looked away. “It simply would.”

“Look,” he began angrily, making Snape turn back to look at him. “I know I said before that I didn’t want you to call me by name, but that was different. That was a different situation. I want you to call me Harry.” He let out a long, hard breath and sat back in the chair, his steady gaze challenging Snape to say something. Anything. His stomach flipped, but he pushed down the anxiety. It was done now. The quaffle was in Snape’s hands.

“Har…” Snape cut himself off with a violent shake of the head and he was out of the chair, pacing away. He turned once he reached the far wall and shook his head again. “I cannot.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, standing. “I know you want to. I know you.”

“You don’t know me!” Snape exclaimed. “You don’t know anything, Harry Potter. What has happened to you? Tell me.”

“What do you mean, what’s happened to me? Everything –”

“No,” Snape cut him off, slicing his hand through the air. “What has happened to you? I didn’t ask what has happened to those around you; I asked what has happened to you.”

Harry’s mouth opened without sound. “My parents died! Sirius died! The basilisk –”

“Your parents died. Sirius Black died. You didn’t. The basilisk attacked others. Tom Riddle’s diary chose Ginny Weasley. Voldemort killed Cedric Diggory. Not you.”

Harry felt the fury building up behind his eyes. “You want to know what happened to me? I’ll tell you! Umbridge made me carve my punishment in flesh and blood last year, over and over and fucking over, and every time I healed so that no one would know, so that I could do it again the next day. You want to more? How about the Dursleys? They locked me in a closet and starved me. They looked the other way when Dudley and his friends decided to use me as a punching bag. They treated me like something they’d stepped on.” He sucked in a deep breath, only warming up. “How dare you imply that nothing’s happened to me? How dare you?”

Snape’s eyes sparked at him. “Tragic, Mr. Potter. Flesh wounds and neglect. Tragic, indeed. Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you know of the Dark Lord and his treatment of those close at hand? What do you know of the Death Eaters and their behaviour?”

“Nothing!” Harry yelled back. “Because you won’t tell me! I want to know! I want to know what happened to you. I care! I care _about_ you! Don’t you fucking understand that yet?” He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, finally realising he had said far, far too much. His throat closed up painfully and he swallowed down.

Snape stared at him, mouth agape, and the colour he’d achieved from his fury quickly faded to a bone white. “Mr…”

“Don’t,” Harry told him sharply and looked up through the dark fringe of his hair. “You know now, don’t you? Even if you didn’t before, if you weren’t quite sure, you know now, right?”

Snape nodded soundlessly.

“And you’re giving me nothing in return. You call me Mr. Potter and tell me nothing, only that ‘it’s not possible’, that ‘it’s improper’, even though you won’t even confirm what it is that’s impossible and improper.”

“You’re a child…”

Harry looked away for a moment and then looked back. “I’m old enough. That’s no excuse and you know it as well as I do.”

“You’re my student…”

“Also not a problem, with veritaserum. Want to try another one?”

Snape sighed and rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “You’re confused. That’s the only explanation. I couldn’t take advantage…”

“That’s utter shite. I was confused, yes, back when I was blowing most of your House in the dark of the dungeons…” He drifted off and then his eyes lit up. “That really upset you, didn’t it? That’s the whole problem…”

“No,” Snape answered immediately and then shook his head. “It upset me, of course. It upset us all.”

“But it upset you especially, didn’t it? I was confused because you told me to find control, and I made a mistake, and you blamed yourself, didn’t you?” Harry watched him and his eyes grew even wider. “You didn’t just blame yourself. You were jealous.”

“I most certainly was not!” Snape returned heatedly.

“You were… And you felt guilty for it. You blamed yourself for the whole thing and you hated yourself because you were jealous.”

“Mr. Potter, do not presume to tell me what I felt.”

Harry stamped across the room, backing Snape against the wall, and locking eyes with him. Harry reached out with his mind, exactly as Snape had taught him, exactly as he had in their practice sessions so many times before. Snape’s mind was a swirl of guilt and longing and desperation and self-repulsion and hunger. And when Harry broke through, Snape’s mind immediately sought his, as if he couldn’t help it, and Harry touched something elusive. He reached for it, even as Snape fought against him to keep it hidden, but the more Snape fought, the more it sought Harry, as if it wanted to be found. Harry reached out and grasped it.

He pulled back and looked at Snape, who shook against the wall, gasping, eyes wide with alarm. “You love me?”

Snape closed his eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened his eyes again, they were hard and cold. “Do not do that again.”

“Then talk to me. Do you love me?”

“Mr. Potter, unhand me.”

Harry stepped back two steps and stopped, looking at him. “I need to know.”

Snape brushed the wrinkles from his clothes and glared at Harry. “What you did could be considered an illegal attack.”

Harry let out an exasperated breath. “Then charge me. Go ahead. Bring the Ministry down here. Have them bring their veritaserum. Maybe then I’ll be able to get an answer out of you.”

“Perhaps it would be wise of you to leave now, Mr. Potter.”

He sighed again and nodded. “Fine. I’ll go, but I’m going to get an answer from you, Prof…” He stopped and then said, “Severus.”

Snape’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

Harry nodded. “I’m going to get a real answer from you, Severus. But until then, you can’t be rid of me. I still need your help with Occlumency and Legilimency.”

Snape glared. “I should think you’ve had enough training, after your display.”

“I haven’t and you know it. I can break into your mind when you’re upset and distracted, but Voldemort is a different story, isn’t he?”

Snape let out a long sigh and nodded, one quick, sharp incline of the head. “True. Very well. But if you continue to… hound me, as you did tonight, I will be forced to bring in a chaperone.”

Harry snorted, amused. “If you think I’m as dangerous as that,” he rolled his eyes. “But I’d like to know what you’d tell the other professor, what story you would create.”

Snape said nothing, only glared, and Harry grinned. “I’ll go, don’t worry.” He turned and went to the door, picking up his robe, and turned back to look at Snape. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Severus. Pleasant dreams.” And he left, feeling victorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to try posting shorter chapters more often, rather than a long chapter less often - mostly to try to keep up my momentum. I get lazy without a quick deadline!
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Do you prefer a long chapter every 2 weeks(ish) or a shorter chapter more often?

Ron rolled his eyes as they left Potions and joined the masses of students heading up towards fresh air. “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?”

Harry suppressed a grin and looked at Ron innocently. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione looked at him past Ron and pushed her hair out of her face. “I think he’s talking about you, Harry Potter, and that... What was that? How on earth did you make Snape turn that colour?”

He grinned at Hermione and shrugged, chuckling, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Neville jogged up behind them. “What was that, Harry? I was sure he was going to kill me, but you just looked at him and he turned purple. How did you do that? You’re not using Dark Arts on him, are you?”

He chuckled again and shook his head, noticing the crowd that hadn’t yet disbursed around them. “I really can’t say anything.”

Ron snorted and Neville glanced between the two of them curiously.

“Why not?” He asked and peered at Harry. “ _Are_ you using Dark Arts?”

Harry laughed. “No, I’m not.” He looked around at the still undisbursed crowd of students. None of them were even pretending not to be listening in. “Look, Snape has been teaching me how to shield my mine from magical invasion, and part of learning how to keep out an attack is learning how to break into someone’s mind.”

Neville’s eyes grew round. “You’ve seen inside Snape’s mind?” 

“Well, yes.”

A hushed mumble ran through the crowd. “Wow,” Neville breathed. “And he let you live?”

Harry shrugged. “The whole point is to keep me alive, isn’t it? Wouldn’t make much sense to kill me. Besides, I think Snape likes me.”

Hermione and Ron turned laughter into strangled coughs while Neville’s eyes threatened to fall from his head. 

“What’s this about, then?” Came Draco’s sneering voice as he pushed his way to the center of the crowd. “Is something interesting happening? Oh, no. It’s just the Potter fan club.”

Slowly, the crowd began to disburse, no doubt sensing that any real fun was over. Hermione and Ron crossed their arms over their chests as they faced Draco, and Neville stood his ground with his friends. Draco’s eyes flicked over them disdainfully. Harry glared at the Slytherin boy, but he gathered his control about him, mostly so that he wouldn’t set Draco’s pale hair alight with fury.

“What do you want, Malfoy? We were having a private conversation.”

“Not so private from where I was standing. Doesn’t the famous Harry Potter know that sometimes he should just keep his mouth shut?” Draco arched an eyebrow and flicked his eyes dismissively over Harry’s friends again. “You little Gryffindors should run back to your tower before someone hears something they shouldn’t.”

He eyed Harry down the length of his nose and chuckled darkly. “You never know who might be listening,” he laughed and turned away with a swish of his robe.

Ron growled at his retreating back. “Sometimes I wish I had a toad. I’d have Dobby put it in his sheets,” he said with a jerk toward Draco.

“I…”

They turned to look at Neville, who smiled tentatively. “I have a toad.”

Ron’s face lit up and he tossed an arm around Neville’s shoulders. “Neville, I’d kiss you, but Hermione would get jealous, and she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head to relieve Neville of the sudden worry in his eyes. “Ron, no one in their right mind would believe you’re gay. We’re a better dressed lot than you.”

Hermione snorted at the look on Ron’s face. “We’d best hurry,” she said. “Remember? Hagrid said he had something special for us today.”

Ron shuddered. “What d’ya wanna bet it’s those horse-sized acid-spewing leeches he was talking about last week? And what’s wrong with the way I dress, eh? I think I’m pretty dashing, if I do say so myself.”

Harry and Hermione traded a look and Hermione smiled at him, patting his arm. “Let’s get to class.”

They walked away, smiling, and Ron stared after them. 

“Hey!”

* * *

“Mr. Potter,” Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would you kindly stop?”

Harry smiled and batted his eyelashes as he’d seen some of the girls do before. Snape turned a deeper shade of pink for a second before he turned away, growling.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“The point of Occlumency isn’t to allow the other person into your mind. You are supposed to be trying to block me.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not good enough to block you.”

Snape rolled his eyes and looked back at him. “When the first thoughts I come across once inside your mind are as specific as those I’ve been privy to, one begins to wonder, Mr. Potter.”

“Like what? What thoughts?”

“You know which thoughts. Kindly keep those particular ideations to the confines of your bedroom.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe I can’t help it.” He grinned. “You’re very sexy when you’re angry, you know.”

Snape growled and paced away. He took a deep breath and then another, and finally he turned back again. He tried a final tact. “What you are doing constitutes harassment, Mr. Potter. And so I say this in the hopes that it penetrates your hormone-addled mind. I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with you. Any slight attraction I may harbour toward you is overshadowed by many various reasons against it. One of which is your youth, which you are currently displaying to an embarrassing degree. Even if I were interested in pursuing a relationship with you, your current behaviour would make me reconsider. I am a grown man, Mr. Potter. I have no interest in the hormonal games of children. Do you understand me?”

Harry blinked at him. “Uh…” He flushed with mortification and nodded. “Yes. Sir. I… think I do.”

“Good.” Snape answered with a relieved sigh and rubbed his forehead. “Now, can we take this lesson seriously?”

* * *

“Harry?”

He turned in his seat and found Dumbledore behind him. “Yes?”

“Could you follow me for a moment?”

He glanced over the table at Hermione quizzically and shrugged. “Sure.” He grabbed a buttermilk muffin before getting up to follow the Headmaster from the massive room. They stopped at the top of the staircase leading down from the Great Hall. Dumbledore gazed down at him and Harry picked at the muffin, trying not to wonder what Dumbledore wanted from him now. He hoped it was something simple, but Dumbledore rarely did simple.

“Have you felt any sign of Voldemort lately?”

Harry blinked and rubbed his scar with the back of his hand. “No. Not really. A twitch now and then, but nothing besides that.”

Dumbledore nodded and glanced away. “I’ve received some reports, but I wanted to confirm it with you.”

“Reports?”

He nodded again and folded his hands inside his sleeves. “He is planning.”

The blood drained from Harry’s face and the muffin crumbs stuck in his throat. “Soon?”

Another nod and Dumbledore had to right his hat before it slid from his head. “How are your lessons with Severus progressing?”

Harry flushed and felt dizzy from the sudden rush of blood. “They… could be better.”

“I need for you to devote more time to it.”

“How much more?”

“As much as possible.”

“Classes?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore looked down at him. “We cannot appear to change our schedules overtly. Hogwarts is not as safe as we may like.” He looked away again and his nose twitched. He scratched it. “But I have excused you from homework. And…” He paused and scratched his nose again. “Severus has a spare room in his quarters.”

Harry blinked and his eyes widened. “You want me to…?”

“It would save quite a bit of time, wouldn’t it?”

“But… what about changing schedules? People are going to notice if I’m… if I’m _living_ with Snape.”

“I have spoken to your roommates. They have agreed to behave as if you still live in the tower with them. And…” Dumbledore fumbled suddenly with his robe and produced a brass medallion on a chain. It dangled from between his fingers as he handed it over. “Wear this. It will allow for brief Apparating within Hogwarts.” He paused and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Or anywhere that has been warded against it.”

“I haven’t learned…”

“Severus will teach you.” Dumbledore looked down at him with a sudden, frightening intensity. “Is there a problem between Severus and yourself of which I should be made aware? Anything to interfere with your studies?”

“Um…” Harry flushed again as he tucked the medallion under his shirt, feeling the coolness of it against his burning skin. “Maybe. But I can… handle it.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment and his eyes softened. “I trust Severus, Harry.”

Harry nodded. “So do I.”

“Good. I have faith in your decisions. You both have my unconditional support. In all matters.”

His face felt like fire, but he nodded. “Thank you.”

With another nod, Dumbledore changed demeanours again, rubbing his nose and tweaking his ear. “You needn’t worry about your possessions. I have asked Dobby to transport them to your new residence.” He smiled widely and walked away.

Harry felt his stomach drop to his knees. “Wonderful.”

* * *

Snape stood in the open doorway to what had always been a bothersome room, nursing a cup of camomile tea. His quarters had four rooms: the main living area, and a toilet dividing two bedrooms. He supposed one of the rooms could have been used as a study or a laboratory, but his office had both attached, and so he had never seen the point to the second room. He had locked the door and ignored its existence. He supposed he could have used it as a junk room or as storage, but he had never been the type to keep attachments to objects for which he no longer had a use. When his robes became too threadbare to be repaired, he disposed of them. Chipped mugs were thrown out. Books that had outlived their usefulness were donated to the school library or used as fuel in his fireplace. The room had always been completely bare, without a single piece of unused furniture.

The previously bare room was now in a state of complete disorder. A curtained bed stood showplace in the center of the far wall. Beside it was a small armoire teeming over with clothing and a squat, cushioned chair covered in socks. A small desk sat directly beside the doorway, the chair pushed in, textbooks piled neatly along its surface. It was the only spot of order in the room. Everything else was covered in clothes and oddities. Bright orange banners and posters of what Snape assumed must be famous Quidditch players were pinned haphazardly along the walls, combined with several waving photos of Harry’s house-elf with its arm around another sulking house-elf who clutched a stained blue hat to its head as it attempted to pull itself from the embrace. Harry’s Firebolt rested against the foot of his bed and piled beside it was his Gryffindor team uniform, despite that he hadn’t had a use for it in nearly two years. Across the bare, wooden floor was a plush carpet of burgundy and wine, with a proud, rearing golden lion in the center and the word Gryffindor in shining letters along the border.

He was housing a young, proud Gryffindor. The Slytherin in him wanted to protest. The man in him wanted to find said young lion, tie him to the proud Gryffindor bedposts and do unspeakably Slytherin things to him.

He turned away from the room and went to find himself a more fortifying beverage.

He suppressed the urge to kill Dumbledore.

It had been an hour or so before the door to his rooms opened and a hesitating Harry came in, clutching his book bag to his chest as he looked at Snape with wide green eyes.

“Um… hi,” he said eloquently and took a single brave step into the room. “Dumbledore said…”

“Yes, yes. Through the door on your right,” Snape waved toward the door and went back to his reading. “You may wish to spend a moment or two organizing the space. Your house-elf has an unusual take on decorating.”

Harry groaned and headed into his room. Snape heard him groan again and a scuffle as he fought to organize. Several moments later, Harry reappeared, his hairline dark with sweat and his face a brewing thundercloud.

“Dobby took my socks.”

“Excuse me?” Snape asked. He was certain he had seen a large pile of socks. On the chair. In decorative fashion.

“He took one of each pair. I have a giant pile of single socks.” He came over and flopped down into the empty armchair, his long legs stretched out before him. “And those photos on my walls? They must be cursed. They won’t come down.”

Snape frowned and stood. “I’ll see to that.”

Harry trailed after him into the room and watched as Snape inspected the grinning, waving photos. He ran his finger along the edge of one and picked at a corner with a fingernail. Finally, he stood back and drew out his wand. He glanced back at Harry and warned, “Avert your eyes.” He closed his eyes and covered his face with a black-cloaked arm, and he released the spell. There was a loud tearing noise and when it was over, he opened his eyes and smiled his satisfaction. The photos hadn’t just been torn from the wall, but shredded as well, tossed about the room like forlorn confetti. He glanced back at Harry, dimly hoping for that same undisguised awe he managed to pull from the young man from time to time.

“Ow,” Harry said instead and rubbed his eyes.

Snape came closer and touched his chin, said in an exasperated voice, “Let me see.”

Harry swallowed and lifted his hand, blinking at Snape. His brilliantly green eyes were covered by a thin, milky film. Snape sighed. “I thought I told you to avert your eyes.”

“I did. I looked away.”

Snape sighed again and tilted Harry’s face, leaning closer to check the severity of Harry’s condition. It didn’t look like more than he could handle himself. He believed he had an eyewash somewhere that he could use. “For future knowledge, Potter, when I warn you to avert your eyes, I expect you to do more than simply look away.” He pressed with his fingertips, drawing Harry’s chin up. A glint at the young man’s throat caught his eye and his fingers slid down Harry’s throat to pick at the chain. He drew out the medallion. “Have you always worn this?”

Harry shook his head, and his breath came in shallow, muted gasps. Snape looked at him with concern. The burn from the spell shouldn’t have done more than surprise and blind him.

“Dumbledore gave it to me today. It lets me Apparate inside Hogwarts.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose and he looked down at the medallion again. It was warm from close contact with Harry’s skin. Snape rubbed it between his fingers. “Is that so? How useful.” He tucked the medallion back under Harry’s shirt, and Harry’s skin felt warm compared to his cool fingers. Harry shivered.

“Sir? Are you…” He bit his lip lightly and the action drew Snape’s eyes. Harry was flushed and his lips shone a rosy colour. Snape’s fingers moved on his chin, thumb rubbing slightly. Harry let out a hot puff of breath and ran his tongue over his lip before he tried again. “Are you going to… do I have to stay blind?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Snape shook himself. “No, of course not. Come.” He took Harry’s elbow and led him into the toilet. “Sit here,” he pushed Harry down onto the edge of the bath and began to rummage through a line of vials in the cupboard. He pushed aside jars of topical lotion, and, for a moment, frowned down at a jar of purple ink, wondering how that had gotten mixed in. He set it aside on the edge of the sink and continued looking.

Harry’s breathing was loud in the small confines of the washroom. Snape glanced back at him.

“Are you in any pain?”

“What?” Harry turned his head at the sound of his voice, blinking his milky eyes. “Um… no. I don’t think so.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You don’t _think_ you’re in pain? One generally knows when one is in pain.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Your breathing is shallow and quick. That normally signals heightened adrenaline, a pounding heart, you might say. If you aren’t experiencing any pain, may I ask what is the matter?”

Harry bit his lip again. He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Snape frowned. “Of course I want to know. I asked.”

Harry shook his head again and Snape gave up searching for the eyewash as he turned around to face Harry.

“If there is something the matter, I need to know. I can cure your blindness myself, but if there is anything gravely wrong, I should take you to see Madam Pomfrey.”

“No! No… no. That’s… not it.” Harry sighed, resigned. “You… touched me.”

“I… what?”

Harry sighed again and stroked one hand down his neck to settle on the hidden medallion against his chest. “You touched me.”

Snape’s mouth went dry. “Ah, oh.”

Harry nodded miserably, lowering his head. His hand still rested against his chest, fingertips along his collarbone. Snape could still feel Harry’s skin under his own fingertips.

“I’m… sorry.”

He shook his head. “Not your fault. You were just… you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

Snape wondered about that, even as Harry continued speaking.

“You’ve made it clear that you aren’t interested in a relationship with me. I’m… I’m trying not to be…” He made a face and rubbed his neck, “…hormonal.”

Snape gazed down at him. He wanted nothing more than to collect Harry against him and taste every inch of his skin, learn his every gasp and sigh. He wanted to wake up to his warm form beside him in his cold bed. He wanted to end his days with Harry in the chair beside his own, sharing tea and trading tales of their days. But it was impossible, he couldn’t dare. Harry was young and, despite the very real possibility of being killed in a truly horrible way, had his whole life ahead of him. Harry Potter could never live the life Snape had chosen for himself. He had far too much promise. Snape knew, even if he tasted, it would be just that… a taste. In the end, Harry would leave and Snape would stay. And that would be that.

He looked back at the array of bottles and plucked the correct one from the center of the collection. He stepped close to Harry and touched his shoulder. “I have the eyewash, Mr. Potter.” He cupped the back of his head. “Lean back.”

Harry did without question, milky eyes open wide and trusting. It was nearly too much. Snape tipped the small bottle and dropped a single drop into each eye. Harry blinked rapidly through the drops, and Snape watched the green eyes appear. They gazed at one another for a moment, and then Harry sat up. Snape stepped back until the small of his back touched the sink and Harry stood, blinking around the room, hand on the wall of the bath. He looked up at Snape, and Snape realised he had seen that expression on Harry’s face once before. It was the same expression he’d worn as he’d calmly spoken about being a weapon rather than a person, about his resignation to the inevitability of death. Snape put a hand back and gripped the cool porcelain of the sink. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’ll…” he gestured toward the open door leading back into his new room. “I’ll go. Let you get back to… your work.” He turned and closed the door behind him, leaving Snape standing alone in his washroom. He returned the bottle to its home in the cupboard and walked slowly to his room. He gazed at Harry’s closed door for a moment, before he turned and firmly closed his own door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Ron jumped and fell out of his bed when Harry Apparated in the center of the room. He crawled off the floor and blinked widely at Harry, mouth agape. “Cripes, Harry. You gotta stop doing that.” He looked at him for a long moment and then said, “You look like hell again.”

Harry nodded, because he knew it also. The mirror hadn’t lied to him. It had said roughly the same thing earlier as he’d gazed into it. He wondered what it told Snape. He wondered if it told him to wash his hair and _perk up, dearie_. He suppressed a smile and straightened his robes. “Get up, Ron. You’ll be late for breakfast.”

Ron rolled up and ran a hand through his copper hair. He plucked at his night shirt and yawned. “So, how’s life with the Snapers? Is it as fun as I think it is?”

Harry shrugged and hitched his book bag up his shoulder. “We get along. We’ve been working too hard these past weeks for anything else though.”

“You learning lots then?” Ron asked as he peeled himself out of his pyjamas and located clean clothes in his trunk.

“I Apparate here every morning, don’t I?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s what that medal is for, isn’t it?”

Harry touched two fingers to the spot against his chest and shook his head. “I had to learn how to Apparate. This just lets me get around the Hogwarts spells.”

Ron grinned suddenly, in the middle of jumping into his trousers, and chuckled. “Now, whenever Hermione says, ‘Don’t you read Hogwarts: A History? You can’t Apparate on to school grounds,’ we can say, ‘Sure you can. Harry can.’”

“Yes, that was the plan all along,” Harry replied dryly.

Ron tucked his shirt into his trousers and shook his head. “You’re starting to sound just like him, mate.”

“Snape?”

“Who else?”

Harry frowned. “I don’t sound like him.”

“You’re starting to look like him too. When was the last time you cut your hair? Or washed it?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and realised that, yes, it was longer now, nearly passed his chin. And, yes, it was a touch greasier than was pleasant. He wondered how he had managed to miss that in the mirror. He sighed and dropped his book bag to the ground. “Go on to breakfast without me. I have to…” He gestured to his hair.

“Just wash it, mate!” Ron called after him. “Looks good long.”

He ended up leaving it long. The mirror in the Gryffindor bath agreed with Ron. It looked better now that it was clean, either way.

“Coming along well, Harry?” Dumbledore asked him in passing at breakfast and Harry nodded. He looked up and found Snape watching him. His stomach caught in a sharp longing and he looked away, swallowing a biscuit that now tasted of wallpaper paste.

“You really do look like shits, Harry,” Ron told him as they headed out across the yard to Care of Magical Creatures. “You should just tell Snape how you feel.”

“I have. A while ago. He doesn’t want me.”

Ron stopped walking and Neville bumped into him. Ron hopped to catch up with Harry. “He doesn’t _want_ you? Why the hell not?”

Harry smiled. “Not everyone seems to think I’m hotter than beans on toast, Ron.”

His friend shook his head in annoyance. “Look, talk to Ginny. She read him. She’ll know.”

“Read him?”

Ron waved his hand in the air. “You know, that thing when she looks at you like she can see your soul? It’s creepy, but it’s what she does. She’ll know.”

* * *

“He wants you,” Ginny told him as she packed up her book bag.

“Then why doesn’t he _want_ me?” He couldn’t quite keep the whine from his voice.

She looked at him patiently, as if he should know all of it already, but she forgave him because he was slow. “Because you’re going to leave him.”

“No, I’m not.”

She shot him another _don’t be an idiot_ look. “Harry, yes, you are.”

“When?”

“When it’s time. I can’t give you a precise date. That isn’t how it works. You knowing you’re going to leave him already changes things. That’s why I don’t tell people what I see very often. And don’t ask me what happens after you leave him. I can’t see beyond that fork in the road.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. His hand stopped and dropped to his side. “Wait.” Ginny looked back up at him, raising one ginger eyebrow. “Wait. You said I’m going to _leave_ him. That means I have to be with him first. I can’t leave him if I’m not with him. Right?”

She smiled and cinched the straps on her bag. “You’re with him right now, aren’t you? Try not to overanalyze every word I say. It’ll give you a headache.” She patted his shoulder. “He wants you and he wants to keep you. He knows he can’t, and just like everyone else on this planet, he doesn’t want his heart broken. But, Harry, you might want to stop trying to see Snape’s future. Try looking at his past. He desperately wants someone to know, someone besides Dumbledore and the Malfoys. He wants _you_ to know, but it’s going to be absolutely, fucking painful for him to tell it. So be a lot more patient than you are normally, Harry.”

He stared at her, caught on the unusual sound of her swearing, and then catching up to the rest of it.

She swung the bag over her shoulder and then paused and looked at him. Her eyes filled with sadness and regret and she shook her head. “Be careful, Harry. You have a lot of forks coming up. I wish I could give you a better warning.” She turned and left the room, only to appear again in the doorway. “Learn to harness the magic, Harry. Master it. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

Harry clenched his teeth and stared at the small, delicate tea cup. It was simple enough. Move the cup from one table to the next. A flick of his wand and a _Leviosa_ and he could move the cup, fill it with tea, stir in a drop of milk, and then sit down to enjoy it. All without spilling a drop or shattering anything.

The cup quivered and slid to one side, and then stopped. It shook in place and both he and Snape tensed, expecting it to shatter in all directions as all the previous attempts had done.

Harry sucked in a breath and forcefully relaxed himself, and the cup relaxed as well. He continued to breathe, focusing on his breaths, in and out, and the cup lifted unsteadily from the table and hovered for a moment before moving very slowly. It paused again over the second table and then dropped the inch, landing heavily, but in one piece. Harry let out a long breath and stared.

“I did it.” He turned to look at Snape.

“So you did,” Snape said evenly, but the corner of his mouth twitched and that was more than enough encouragement for Harry.

“I did it!” He cried and tossed himself at Snape, wrapping his arms around the man and holding on. He couldn’t help but quiver with joy. He looked up at Snape’s face. “I did it!”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“Shut up, this is amazing!” Harry let go and ran to check the cup, lifting it up and checking it all over for hidden cracks.

“All in one piece then, Potter?”

“It’s perfect.” Harry set it back on the table and hopped in place, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “That was great.” He ran a hand over his brow, wiping sweat from his face. “I have to…” He bounced again.

“Have to…?”

“Donno. Celebrate.”

Snape smiled thinly. “You moved a single cup less than a foot.”

“Exactly!” Harry grinned. “Come on! Don’t even pretend you’re not excited. I can tell. You’re just bursting inside, aren’t you?”

“Hardly,” Snape drawled, but the twitch in the corner of his lips remained.

Harry grinned and jumped forward to grab his hand. He tugged Snape toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Snape dug in his feet. “Where are you taking me?”

“To celebrate.”

“Where?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Where else? Hogsmeade. Come on. I’m young, rich, and full of myself. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“But I…” Snape cut himself off.

“What?”

Snape flushed and brushed his free hand over his robe.

Harry paused and looked him. “You look great, Severus. You don’t have to change.”

Snape flushed a deeper shade of red and scowled. “Of course not.”

With a small smile, Harry reached up and touched his face with two fingertips. Snape froze and stared down at him. 

“I like you, Severus.” Harry smiled. He did not try for a firmer touch than the brush of his two fingers against Snape’s chin. Pushing Snape was like pushing against a mountain. 

“I like it when you’re proud of me and your lips curl up just a little in the corner,” Harry grazed that corner with the tip of one finger. “I like it when you’re amused by me and you roll your eyes and try not to smile. I like it when you stare at me when you think I’m not looking.” He trailed his fingers away and smiled again. “I like you first thing in the morning, before tea. I even like it when you are tired of me and you just flick your eyes at me until I get the hint. I like all of it.”

Snape’s mouth fell open and Harry tapped it closed with his finger. He tugged on the hand he still held. “Now, let’s go. Before my high wears off.”

Hogsmeade on a Friday evening was a busy, bustling, throbbing place, overflowing with students eager for something other than classes, with young, blushing lovers searching for a corner, with professors looking for a long drink and a moment’s peace. Snape hated Hogsmeade, although he did find it practical for last minute purchases he hadn’t thought to order ahead. He trailed after Harry and hoped desperately that the young man wouldn’t lead him into an establishment teaming over with reckless students.

Thankfully, Harry lead them past the most popular meeting places and around a corner with the surety of someone who knew exactly where he was heading. He stopped at a dark-faced, shuttered building and smiled before pushing through the door. Snape allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light and looked around.

How had he not known of this place? The central room was a quiet, darkly-lit room, filled with low chairs and couches and a spattering of tables. None of the handful of patrons did more than glance at them as they came in, but kept to their subdued conversations, hands occasionally reaching out to take cups or wedges of bread from the tables.

A tall woman in a long, wine-coloured dress approached them and reached out to take Harry’s hands in her own. She bent and kissed both his cheeks. “Harry,” she said in a low, throaty voice. “It has been so long. Our friend told me of Sirius.”

Harry nodded and gripped her hands. “I should have come sooner.”

She nodded and glanced up at Snape, eyes recognizing him, but saying nothing. She looked back at Harry. “Would you like his room?”

“Please.”

“You remember the way. I will begin your meal.”

Harry smiled widely. “Thanks. We’re celebrating.”

She smiled without showing teeth and nodded, releasing his hands. “I will keep that in mind.” She nodded at Snape and turned away, disappearing through a swinging door.

Still carrying his smile, Harry nodded his head down a hallway. “This way.” They passed by many closed doors and then around a series of corners, until Snape was certain that the building had no sensible floor plan. He was convinced that they had made a full circle, but he knew that they were nowhere they had previously been. There were no windows for him navigate by. He found himself entirely reliant on Harry for any sense of direction. It was disconcerting.

Harry finally stopped by a door which looked no different than any other, and he knocked three times before turning the handle. The room within was empty of any people, but in one corner was a couch and two plush chairs and in the other, a table with four chairs and an array of place settings. The light was soft and two candles flickered from the table. The walls were warm, dark wood, the ceiling high and vaulted, the floor carpeted and comfortable.

“What is this place?”

Harry took off his robe, hooking it against the wall, and he toed off his shoes before he crossed the room and sprawled over the couch. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

Snape rolled his eyes and removed his own robe, keeping his shoes. He crossed and sat in a chair. It hugged his body comfortably. “Mysterious does not suit you, Mr. Potter.”

He grinned and lay back, head on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed over each other. “It’s a safe house. For werewolves.”

Snape tensed and looked around him. “For… what?”

Harry smiled obliviously at the ceiling. “Werewolves. Everyone here, except a very few, and us of course, are werewolves. Remus brought me here. Sirius stayed here a few times, but rarely. Werewolves aren’t fond of strange dogs.” Harry shrugged a single shoulder.

“There will be a full moon tonight.”

Harry’s eyes turned toward him, luminescent in the shallow light. “Don’t worry. No windows. The moon isn’t allowed in here. The low light and the warm tones keep them relaxed.” He smiled, “And there are over a dozen spells warding this place. It’s called a safe house for a reason.”

Snape looked around again. To be surrounded by so many werewolves, so close to Hogsmeade, so close to Hogwarts… To place such trust of wards and interior decorating… “I had no idea such a place existed.”

“Few do. I only know about it because of Remus, of course. They don’t generally let outsiders in, because of the attitudes toward werewolves.” Harry paused and settled one hand on his stomach. “I’m constantly surprised by what wizards are willing to tolerate and what they aren’t.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Harry lifted his hand in a shrug, settling it back on his stomach. “No one minds if your skin is a different colour, or if you’re gay, at least not these days so much, or if you’d rather worship one deity or another, or anything like that. No one even cares if your family tree doesn’t branch out quite as much as it should. But if your parents are Muggles, you’re a “mudblood”. If you’re bitten by a vampire or a werewolf, you’re a danger to society. Or if one of your relatives is a giant, like Hagrid. It’s… sad, I suppose. They can’t help being who they are. They didn’t choose to be bitten, or to have the parents they have.”

Snape gazed at him until Harry turned his head.

“But I suppose I’m talking to the wrong person.”

Snape frowned. “What do you mean?”

Harry lifted his hand again. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you? You don’t like werewolves either. Prefer pure-blooded wizards.”

Darkness descended over Snape’s eyes. “I am not a bigot, Mr. Potter. I don’t like werewolves due to nearly being _eaten_ by one. It is bound to leave a lasting impression. And my own heritage is… complex. I have had my time of prejudice and hatred, but it has been decades since I have prejudiced against a person for a reason out of their control.”

“So says the man who hated me because I was a Potter.”

“I never hated you.”

Harry looked at him again, disbelief written clear across his face. “I don’t think I believe you.”

“I hated James. I hated him quite passionately, actually,” Snape said without hesitation. He spoke plainly, eyes on Harry. “And, I’m sure you’re quite tired of hearing it, but you look like him, more than enough to draw that same passion from me from the first moment I saw you.”

“Then…” Harry frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “You _did_ hate me?”

“I thought I did. I wanted to. I half-expected you to be exactly like him. And you, Harry Potter, did very little to dissuade that particular expectation.” Snape raised an eyebrow at him, “And you speak of irrational prejudices.”

Harry flushed shamefully, but Snape shook his head, dismissing it.

“I cannot blame you. I have never done anything to lead anyone to believe anything but the worst of me.” His eyes turned inward, thoughtful, and he shook his head again. “But no, I didn’t hate you. But I thought I might, because there was a never a moment when I did not feel passionately about you.”

The young man made a small, quickly repressed sound, causing that quirk in Snape’s lips to appear again.

“It took me quite some time to realise that my passion for you ran in the opposite direction of hate.”

“Since _when_?”

Snape smiled, showing teeth for a breathless second. “When you sat quietly in my study, behaving as the perfect student, and I realised how deeply it discomforted me. I wanted to see you smile again and hear you laugh. Your laughter, it is so similar to that of a friend of mine, from a very long time ago. She, like you, was always so full of laughter.”

Harry caught his breath. “Who…”

Snape’s eyes turned down and a very small smile caught at his lips. “She is likely remembered for her kindness, and certainly she was very kind, but I will always remember the way her eyes would shine so brightly when she told some of the most off-colour jokes I had ever heard in my short time on earth.” He looked back up at Harry and met his eyes.

“I was so angry, so resentful of everything, but your mother, she could make me laugh. She could make me laugh until tears rolled down my face and I could scarcely catch my breath. She was the single brightest spot in my life, the dearest friend I had ever had, and certainly would ever have. I had so many strikes against me - mudblood, poor, shy, awkward, angry, queer as a chocolate teapot, but Lily,” he smiled in memory, “she cared not a whit for what anyone told her about me. She would cut ribbons through anyone who dared tell her what to do. So like you in so many ways.”

Harry perched forward on the edge of his seat. “She was?”

Snape nodded. “It was so very disconcerting to see James’ face and hear Lily’s laughter emerge when you first arrived in my classroom. You had already been warned of me, I could tell, and I could see James so clearly again. I could see his torment, his meanness and his cruelty, but you did not have James’ smile, you have only ever had Lily’s. I did resent you for taking her smile away from her and claiming it for yourself.”

“I’m…” Harry stuttered, “I’m sorry.”

Snape shook his head vehemently. “Oh no, don’t be. I’m very glad to see so much of my friend continues on through you.”

“Did you… I mean… did you? Love her?”

Snape shot him a hard look. “Was I in love with your mother, is that what you ask me? That would certainly make current developments very awkward. No, Harry. I have never been anything other than very, very gay, I assure you. Lily was my dearest friend and she knew very well my preferences. As did your father, and as did everyone else after your father decided to announce it in the middle of the Great Hall after causing my robes to vanish.”

Harry’s mouth twisted in disgust. “He did? And my mother… I don’t get it. If my father was so… so awful, why did my mother date him? Why did she marry him? If she was your best friend and he was so awful to you… Why?”

“And now you ask excellent questions.” Snape shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. “The truth of it is, by that time, she and I had drifted apart, due greatly to my own movement toward the Death Eaters and their promise of power and knowledge.” He hesitated and folded his hands together. He steadied himself and said quietly, “Due greatly to my own involvement with a man named Tom Riddle and his… attentions.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Snape cut him off. “And that is all I will say of that. Suffice to say, Harry, that no, I have not hated you. I have resented you. I have envied you. I have cursed my own poor decisions and what I have lost, but I have not hated you.”

“But you never… you always acted like you hated me, like… well, like Ron said once, that you wanted to skin me alive and watch me dance. If you didn’t really hate me… You did a good job of fooling people.”

“Thank you. I’m glad my efforts did not go to waste.”

“What?”

Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. “The Death Eaters would never have welcomed me back, allowing me to collect the precious data the Order requires, if I had embraced you from day one. I had a role to play, Mr. Potter. My outward appearance of prejudices fell into that role as well. Surely you can understand that.”

Harry grinned. “Embraced me?”

Snape growled and looked away. They sat in silence for a long while, Harry smiling up at the high ceiling. He had more out of Snape tonight than he had expected to receive, ever. He finally closed his eyes, unwilling to press his luck. 

“I thought we had come to celebrate,” Snape spoke up suddenly. “This is hardly…” he drifted off. He had been expecting something a touch more boisterous, considering Harry’s behaviour back in their quarters.

Harry blinked over at Snape. “Do you really want me to jump around, screaming and shouting and hugging you? Or do you want to sit here and eat good food and drink a bottle of wine?”

Snape gazed back at him, unresponsive, and Harry lifted an eyebrow. He sat up. “You want me to jump around, don’t you?”

Snape tilted his head at him and said, “I do believe I had mentioned something about missing your laughter, if you do recall. Although do not expect me to repeat myself again.”

Harry grinned widely. “Wow, okay.” He gave it very little thought before he stood and walked over to Snape, pausing a long moment before leaning over him and taking one hand in his own.

“You want laughter? I think I can give you that.” He put Snape’s hand to his side, sliding it under the edge of his shirt, against his skin.

Snape lifted an eyebrow at him and Harry grinned. “No really, go for it.”

Snape made an aborted twitch of his fingers and Harry’s stomach muscles tensed in anticipation. Snape’s eyebrow quirked again and the corners of his lips turned up, and his fingers curled wickedly against Harry’s side. Harry gasped and a small squeak burst from him, and a light awoke in Snape’s eyes.

He leaned forward sharply and slid both hands under the edge of Harry’s shirt and tickled him.

“Oh no! No! Ah!” Harry laughed and tried to turn away from the grip, but Snape pulled him back in and bracketed him between his knees. He tickled Harry’s ribs mercilessly, and Harry twisted in the circle of his hands and doubled over, laughing. His hands tried to grab at Snape’s to still him, but Snape grinned despite himself and grabbed Harry’s wrists, pulling them behind his back and holding them firmly in one hand as his other hand stroked over the sensitive skin of Harry’s side.

“Oh.” Harry said softly and stilled, and he lifted his head to look at Snape, who stopped and returned the gaze. He held Harry’s hands securely behind his back and had one hand against the soft skin of Harry’s belly, and Harry’s breath stuttered in his throat. His stomach muscles twitched under Snape’s hand, and Snape’s eyes held his as he stroked his hand along Harry’s flank, his fingers trailing softly against his side.

“I…” Harry tried to say as his body responded to this new and absolutely glorious situation he found himself in. “I… um…”

Snape sat still for a long, breathless moment, his eyes intent on Harry’s, and then something shifted in his eyes, and his lips twitched and Harry found himself pulled suddenly forward into the V of Snape’s legs. Snape’s hand slid over to the small of his back and he released Harry’s wrists to put a hand to the back of Harry’s neck, thumb warm against his pulse, and Harry found that he could not breathe at all. There was no room left in his chest for oxygen, only this heavy, expanding warmth. It swelled in his chest like a living thing. 

Snape’s hand slid again against his bare skin and Harry swayed forward minutely. They were so very close. He could feel the press of Snape’s thighs against the sides of his knees and the soft touch of Snape’s hand splayed against his back. He could see the beat of Snape’s pulse in his throat, fast, very fast, and he watched Snape’s eyes darken as he gazed up at Harry standing above him.

“I...” Harry tried again, but his mouth was suddenly very dry, his tongue far too clumsy for words, and he decided on efficiency rather than eloquence. “Yes,” he said and leaned down to capture Snape’s mouth with his own.

He could feel Snape shudder against him as their lips touched and Snape’s hand spasmed against his back, fingers gripping into him and pulling him even closer. Harry flowed into him, sliding forward until they were flush against one another, and he moaned low in his throat as Snape slid his thumb against Harry’s side. His freed hands came around and up, holding Snape’s face still for him, and he tilted his head and pressed in, deepening the kiss. He gasped despite himself when Snape’s lips parted and Harry slid a tentative tongue across the curve of Snape’s lip and Snape chased it with his own, curling about his. They traded quick, short kisses and long, devastating kisses until Harry’s head began to spin. He pulled back to suck in a lungful of air and looked at Snape, who gazed back at him with black eyes, his thin lips swollen, his pale cheeks flushed. Harry’s arms had somehow found their way around Snape’s neck, and he had one hand laced into the man’s dark hair.

“Wow,” Harry breathed and bent forward again.

There was a knock on the door and they both turned their heads to glare. Harry slid from between Snape’s knees and righted his clothes with one hand while the other swiped at the corners of his mouth. “Come in,” he called and sat back on the couch, heart pounding in his chest loud enough he expected everyone in the building could hear it. 

The woman came in and looked them over with a hint of a smile. She stepped aside and a self-propelled cart followed her in. It stopped by the table side and dishes flew off of it, arranging themselves on the table. A wine bottle danced over the glasses, filling them three inches full and then resettled itself in its bucket of ice.

Both Snape and Harry noticed that three place settings had been filled. Harry looked at the woman questioningly.

She smiled, showing slightly pointed teeth. “Our friend has arrived.”

“Remus?” Harry asked and his feet slipped from the couch to drop heavily to the ground. “He’s here? Now?”

“He’s greeting some other guests currently, but will no doubt join you shortly.” The woman checked the table and nodded with satisfaction. “Is there anything else you require?”

Harry glanced at Snape and they shared a look. “No,” Harry replied dully, trying not to pout. “No, we’re fine.”

She closed the door behind her and Harry sighed, slouching even farther back into the couch. “Perfect timing.” He looked up at Snape again and found that quirk in the corner of his mouth. It made Harry smile despite himself. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I think it’s quite amusing.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, you would. You weren’t the one about to get shagged by the sexiest man on earth.”

“Yes, I was,” Snape said in a dark voice, and Harry shivered at the sound of it.

He looked at the door and then back. “We can’t possibly have time for this.”

Snape shook his head, amused. “Not nearly.”

Sighing, Harry nodded. “How badly do I look like I was just being snogged?”

“Looks are beside the point, Potter. Werewolves have keenly developed senses of smell, or do you remember nothing of your lessons?”

Harry flushed brilliant red. “Oh, right. He’s going to…” He made a sound. “Madam Selene _knew_. I hope she doesn’t… But he’s going to… smell… Oh, bugger all.”

Snape’s mouth turned up. “I could leave.”

“No, oh no. You’re not leaving me alone with him. Besides, I invited you to dinner. He’s the one crashing my date. He should leave.”

“It is his room, is it not?”

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead, fingers lingering over the scar as it sent a small spike of pain behind his eyes. “Yeah, it is. Bugger. Bugger bugger. Damned Lupin.”

Snape snorted back a laugh. “We share rooms in Hogwarts, Potter. Or has the redirected blood flow left your brain completely useless?”

Harry looked up and his face was transformed by a growing, wicked grin. 

Three knocks and the door opened. Lupin, looking pale but refreshed, stepped in. And stopped as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. He sniffed the air and glanced between the two of them with growing eyes.

“Hi, Remus.” Harry lifted a hand and waved. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

* * *

“Are you _insane_?” Lupin stood over him, his eyes yellowing along the edges, his teeth sharp. Were it not for the dozen spells over the safe house, Harry knew his entrails, and Snape’s, would be lining the walls.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Remus,” Harry began, but Lupin growled low in his throat and Harry shut his mouth with a sigh. He rubbed his scar absently, feeling a twinge for the second time in the evening.

“You might be finding yourself _blissfully_ short on guardianship this year, Harry, but your parents would never have approved of this. Sirius would never –”

Harry growled back. “Don’t talk to me about Sirius, or my parents. They loved me. They wanted me to be happy.”

“Not with Snape!” Lupin rounded suddenly and glared at Snape. “How could you take advantage of a child?”

Snape stood, making the differences in their height obvious. He looked down his nose at Lupin. “I have not taken anything that wasn’t offered. Repeatedly.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open and he made a choked sound, but both men paid him no attention.

“You should have never have acted on it! For Merlin’s sake, he’s only sixteen.”

“He’s old enough to choose for himself.”

“I don’t care! This isn’t about any sixteen year old boy’s infatuation with his teacher. This is about _Harry Potter_ ,” he said the name as everyone said the name, as if he weren’t speaking of a person, but of a thing, a concept. “No one is more closely watched than him. I can’t believe you of all people wouldn’t think of the consequences!”

“I’m standing right here,” Harry told them, but still, neither so much as glanced at him.

Lupin continued speaking, in a quieter tone, now that Snape’s dark anger had faded from his eyes. “You’re as closely watched as Harry is, Snape. He’ll kill you if he hears about this.”

Snape shook his head and argued, “No, he won’t.” But his tone was soft.

Lupin looked at him knowingly and nodded.

“Not at first, certainly,” Snape continued.

“He’d let you watch, wouldn’t he? After he’d captured Harry and wrung what he sought from him. And then he’d kill you. Slowly. Or he would curse you, and give you the honour of murdering Harry. He’d find that fitting, no doubt.”

Harry’s eyes grew round and his hand groped back for support, finding the door jamb and gripping into it until he was certain he would leave marks in the wood.

“Don’t you see? You can’t risk this, not for Harry, and not for the Order. We need you; you are too valuable, Snape. We need that from you. You and Harry can’t risk a… a relationship. You put yourself into danger too often, and Harry is too young and too excitable. The first bad news we heard and he’d be off, risking his life in some idiotic rescue.”

Snape nodded seriously, any trace of anger gone. “You’re correct, of course. I should never have allowed his enthusiasm to sway me. I should have worked harder to maintain my control…”

“That’s enough!” Harry cried out, unable to contain himself any longer.

They turned, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“I can’t believe you two! Don’t I get _any_ say in this?”

“Harry, the risks…”

“I know the risks, Remus. I know the risks better than anyone. Do you both think I’m so dense as that?”

The two men glanced at one another and Harry’s mouth dropped open again.

“You do! You think…” He looked at Snape. “Severus, you still think I’m naïve and stupid. Still? Even after _everything_?”

Snape looked away.

“I can’t believe this,” Harry whispered. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and batted at his eyes angrily. “I can’t believe you.”

“Harry…” Snape said and took a step forward.

“Don’t!” Harry pulled back sharply. “How dare you call me that now? How dare you! I have been waiting, god, have I been waiting, and you…” Tears escaped down his face and he swiped them away. He looked at the two and felt sick. “Fuck you. Fuck you both.” He spun, flinging open the door, and disappeared down the hall.

Madam Selene and the patrons of the front room looked up at him as he dashed passed and out the door, into the bright, moonlit night.

Harry ran blindly. His unshod feet should have hurt as they flew against the cobbled street but he didn’t notice, any more than he noticed when he tripped, scrapping his palms against the road. He didn’t notice the pain; he pushed back to his feet and kept running. He lost all trace of where he was, which dark buildings loomed over him. He’d lost all his senses. And yet he still _hurt_.

He collapsed against the red-bricked side of a building and he sobbed into it, hugging and burrowing himself in the unyielding stone. The night had begun so differently. Damn them. Damn them both. Damn them all. He pounded his fists into the wall and felt his bones jar against each other. He did it again, and again, until blood dripped down his wrists. It felt good to hurt for something other than his inner turmoil.

“Hello, Harry Potter…,” a whispered voice behind him said.

He stopped, shoulders still quivering, and turned, half hoping to see Snape behind him – half wanting to hug him, half wanting to pound the man’s head into the wall.

Bellatrix Lestrange grinned at him and lunged.

* * *

“Potter?” Snape turned another corner, following the small, yellow locating pixie he’d summoned. He glanced up at the sky, noting the moon, and debated cursing it. Without it, Lupin would never have arrived in the safe house, never have interrupted their evening, as necessary as he now saw that interruption to be. Still, without the moon, Lupin could be out in the night with him, sniffing the air with his overdeveloped senses. A far sight better than the bloody irritating pixie. It fluttered ahead of him down a dark alley and emerged into a desolate courtyard.

“Potter?” He called louder, seeing a shadowed shape moving against a building ahead of him. The pixie hovered over to the shape and winked out, its duty over. He took a few steps forward, mind working on what he could possibly say to the young man, and then he froze, his entire body going cold.

Bellatrix had turned and she grinned at him, showing white, dangerous teeth. Harry hung limp in her arms and she bent, pressing a kiss to his temple, before she began to Apparate, collecting Harry up against her body.

“No!” Snape cried and ran forward, wand out and prepared, but it was too late.

They disappeared in an explosion of displaced air, leaving nothing, and Snape slammed hard against the wall, adding his own scraped blood to the bricks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to add an additional trigger warning here for the next few chapters, because REASONS — off-screen torture, psychological torture, and general Death Eater nastiness. Nothing is explicit or gratuitous. Please, message me if you want more detailed warnings.

His world erupted in flames. Along his skin, through his muscles and in his bones, he couldn’t escape the searing heat. He fought, but each time he pulled away, something tightened around his neck, cutting off his air, and left him choking, burning. Everything was darkness. He couldn’t escape. 

Something cool and silky brushed over his legs, coiling about his body. He jerked away, choking himself again and he coughed around a throat of fire.

“Try not to move. Nagini might mistake you for a rabbit,” the voice slid over him laughingly. “Though you do writhe about deliciously, boy. I only wish you could see yourself.”

Harry opened his eyes, but the world stayed black. He blinked and blinked again. “What did you do to me?”

The voice laughed again. “Very little, dear boy. Merely contained you. If anyone had mentioned how attractive you look with chains about that throat of yours, I would have worked harder to lay my hands upon you and keep you.”

Harry moved his bound hands behind his back gently and felt the tug at his neck. A rough chain rubbed against his spine with every motion. His feet were loose, but he could hardly move from his position on the floor without strangling himself.

“Why can’t I see?”

“A blinding spell, of my own creation. It makes this so much more fun, wouldn’t you say? Chained, blindfolded, on your knees…”

Harry gagged as invisible hands pulled him upward suddenly. He nearly toppled over onto his face as he was moved into a kneeling position, but a sudden hand on his chest brought him upright again. Hot breath ghosted over his face and he turned away from it.

Fingers took hold of his chin and turned his face back.

“Such a pretty boy you are, Harry.” The fingers moved from his chin and traced under his bangs, stroking over the scar. Harry pulled away again, but the hand pulled on the collar tightly, bringing him too close to that hot breath. “Does no one touch you like this, boy? Who have you let this close before?”

Fingers probed his mind and Harry gritted his teeth and snapped his mind shut. 

“Ah, someone has taught you.” The fingers and breath retreated and Harry sagged down against his calves. His fingers gripped his heels to keep from tipping over. “Someone has made this more difficult for me. Who would that be, little Harry? Albus Dumbledore, perhaps? He has always been fond of you, hasn’t he?” A finger trailed along the edge of his collar again, against his skin, and then left. The voice retreated again, “Oh yes, I can see how he would be fond of you.”

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked tiredly.

Voldemort’s voice wrapped around him like silk as he said, “Everything,” and Harry screamed as his scar erupted in flame.

* * *

Lupin had never invited so many into the safe-house. Under the circumstances, it was the only option. The wolf kept him trapped within the moonless walls. 

As the last of the Marauders, Harry was his responsibility. He couldn’t describe what it had been to wait while Severus Snape went after Harry into the night, to pace the length and breadth of the small room until he felt certain he might scream, and he certainly couldn’t describe what it had been to have Snape return, alone. Never had he seen Snape in such a condition, with something resembling madness behind his eyes. After relating the story to Lupin, he had retreated into a corner of the room and had yet to move, despite the growing number of people pouring into the small space.

Lupin offered a small smile as Ron, Neville and Hermione pushed through the crowd to stand before him. They had grown in the year since he’d last seen them. None of them were the children they had been, Lupin could see that now. Harry was not a child anymore. Despite memories of holding the small, bright-eyed infant in his arms, that time was many years gone.

“Professor Lupin,” Hermione began, but he shook his head.

“Remus, now. I think we are all equal in this fight, as of today.”

Ron sucked in a trembling breath and shook off Hermione when she tried to lace her fingers through his. “What happened to him? What happened exactly?”

Lupin felt his face heat with shame. “We argued and he ran. I–” He shook his head and gestured over to the corner. “Snape would be able to tell you best. He saw… what I could not.”

Ron turned his head to where Lupin gestured and crossed the room immediately, leaving the others behind.

Hermione had tears in her eyes when she looked back at Lupin. “What can we do?”

He shook his head, feeling exhaustion creeping up behind his eyes. “Nothing, yet. Aurors have been sent about, searching for him, but…”

“But no one knows where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is,” Neville supplied quietly. “And Harry could be nowhere but with him.”

Neville’s tone was a paper cut: sharp, quick and undeniable. Lupin swallowed and nodded, “That would be the whole of it. I’m afraid we’re all left in the dark on this one. We–” He paused as Dumbledore wove toward them and stopped. “Any news?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Nothing as of yet, but there’s no need to give up hope. My sources have reported movement among the Death Eaters. It will take time to interpret the data, but…” He drifted off and asked, “Has anyone spoken to Severus?”

Lupin nodded in that direction. “He returned, told me what had happened and retreated into that corner.”

The crowd jostled and Ginny appeared beside Hermione, lacing her own fingers between her friend’s. “I could try to speak with him.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Let’s give Ron a chance first, shall we?” He looked down at the red-haired girl. “You read Harry recently. Is there anything you can tell us?”

She shook her head. Her long bangs fell from their place, tucked behind her ear, and she angrily swept them back. “I knew something unpleasant was coming for Harry, but I couldn’t see what it was. There were too many paths stretching out from tonight, I couldn’t follow them.”

“I’m glad I could help to make the worst possible,” Lupin spoke bitterly, but Dumbledore hushed him.

“We haven’t the time for recrimination and regrets, Remus. Harry needs to be found.”

Lupin closed his eyes and nodded, rubbing his temple. “Of course, of course. I…” He let out a long breath, sharp with tension. “I’m sorry. I need…” The room was usually more than enough to keep him calm during the moon, and when it was at its worst, he could pace the endless halls, but tonight… His fingernails curled into his palms.

Neville spoke up softly, “The moon is setting.”

Lupin opened his eyes to stare at the young man.

“Did Professor Snape tell you where it happened?”

“Yes.” 

Neville nodded and looked to Dumbledore. “It would be good to see it, wouldn’t it? Look it over?”

“A brilliant idea. Remus, you wouldn’t mind watching these three as they search the area, would you? I would go myself, but I’m afraid I have to remain here should any of my contacts try to reach me.”

Remus shook his head. “No, I… that would be…” He glanced over at Ron and Snape and then back at his three former students. “It should be done soon, so we don’t lose any possible evidence, right?”

Neville nodded. Hermione glanced to Ron as well, but gripped Ginny’s smaller fingers and turned away with the others.

* * *

They didn’t like each other, though both had come to tolerate the other over the last few months, for the sake of Harry. Ron watched him as Snape stood with his back to the wall, his head bowed, his hair a thick curtain shielding his face from view of all save Ron. For the first time, he really looked at the man.

Snape was tall and thin and wore too many layers of dark clothing, as if he were trying to be a shadow and not only hide in them. His skin was pale. His eyes were dark and hooded. His nose was over-large and hooked. His mouth was thin. His hair was lank and long and dark as ink. He did look like a shadow, Ron decided. He looked like someone who didn’t live, but only survived. 

“Harry loves you,” Ron spoke and his voice sounded loud, even amid the din of voices in the room.

Snape flinched at his simple words and glanced at him. They were of similar height these days, though Ron was still an inch or two short, but it was enough that they could look at each other without looking down.

“He doesn’t blame you, you know. Wherever he is, he would never blame you.”

Snape scoffed quietly, but it lacked energy, and Ron didn’t believe it for a second. 

“Harry doesn’t hold grudges. He never has and never will.” Ron paused and then said, “I do. Hold grudges, that is. I’ve held them over Harry. Plenty of times. He’s always hurt by it, but he can’t even keep that hurt for long, after I get over it and come back.” Ron smiled. “He loves me. We’re best mates, he and I.” Ron looked up at Snape, found him watching with dark eyes. “Did you ever have a best mate?”

Snape thought for a moment and Ron watched him do it. Finally, Snape looked back at him.

“I never had one until Harry, just my brothers, but they don’t count. Harry’s been my best mate since day one,” Ron smiled at the memory and then looked at Snape again. “And you were his enemy since day one. But that was my fault. I told him to hate you. And so he did. ‘Cause that’s what best mates are for.”

Snape moved, only slightly, probably only stretching his leg or shifting a foot.

“My sister likes you,” Ron kept talking. He needed to. He had to something. “She told me you would be good for Harry, that in the end, Harry would be better because of you.” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure about that yet. Harry’s done a bunch of things _I_ wouldn’t consider good, and he’s done them for you or because of you. But he’s done stuff for me too, so… can’t be a hypocrite.”

He looked at Snape again, studying him for a long moment, watching Snape watch him. Ron nodded, still not sure exactly what had been resolved in his mind, but he held out his hand. Snape stared at it and then up at him.

“Truce. I’m sorry for every… um, okay. Not everything, but _most_ of what I have done or said about you. And a few of my thoughts too, I suppose. Mum always told me not to judge someone unless you know them, and… Well, I still don’t know you, but I know that you’re not evil. You’re… good, in a way, I guess, almost. So, I’m sorry. There. I said it.”

The corner of Snape’s mouth quirked and Ron smiled back.

“This is where you take my hand and say nice things back to me.”

Snape’s lips curved and he looked down at the hand again. His hand appeared from his sleeve and he took Ron’s hand, gripping it with a touch too much strength, but Ron grinned and easily returned the grip. 

“I apologize for nothing, Mr. Weasley. You deserved everything you have received from me.”

Ron pouted. “That wasn’t a nice thing. You have to say one nice thing. To seal the truce.”

“Very well.” Snape thought for a good long while, his long fingers gripping Ron’s hand with unbroken strength, and then finally replied, “You are a skilled chess player.”

Ron considered that for a moment and then nodded and released Snape’s hand. “Thanks. Wanna play a round sometime?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, now’s hardly the time, s’pose. We’ve got a best mate to find, don’t we?”

Snape looked at him again. “Yes, we do.”

* * *

Something Harry had never anticipated was that Voldemort was a real person. In his mind, he still pictured Voldemort as a skeletal corpse, thin and weedy like an ancient memory of a man, fresh from the grave. But from Voldemort’s touches, he couldn’t be so insubstantial anymore. His hands felt warm and soft, and quite strong. He felt like a human being. He didn’t feel like an illusion.

That was what worried Harry the most. Real people were so much more dangerous than illusions.

He’d been kneeling in the darkness of his blindness for what seemed an eternity. He had no way of knowing the time, unless he were to ask, and he had no desire to speak to Voldemort. It had been long enough that he was beginning to feel weak from the constant gnawing hunger in his stomach. He remembered the meal he had promised Snape and his stomach growled angrily. It had been too long since he’d last eaten.

His stomach growled again and Voldemort asked, “Are you hungry?”

He didn’t answer, but his stomach did. The very question caused his entire body to ache for food.

“I don’t intend to starve you, Harry. All you need to do is ask and you’ll be fed. You need only to ask for whatever you need, and it will be given. You are my…” The amusement came back into his voice, “…my special guest.”

Harry pulled at his hands behind his back, feeling the tense pain in his shoulders, feeling the tug on his neck. “In that case, would you mind letting me go?”

Voldemort chuckled and there was a slight clinking sound. Harry’s ears perked as he tried to place the familiar/strange sound. Even the smallest of sounds had taken on a whole new importance to him. There were things he knew about where he was: the floor was cold, the room was large, there was an open window, there were birds outside, the breeze smells of flowers. He wasn’t sure how any of that would help, but he had to do something.

“I like you, Harry Potter. You provide a great deal of entertainment. I hope I can find ways to encourage your further participation.”

“Then you aren’t going to let me go? So much for whatever I need.”

Nagini brushed around him again, but he held still. The snake seemed to behave as an extension of Voldemort, moving against him and flicking its small tongue against his skin whenever the man wasn’t close enough to do it himself. Both evil creatures seemed to enjoy his movements far too much.

“Perhaps I should rephrase. You may ask for whatever you need, and I will consider the request. But, really, Harry, some requests are unreasonable. If I were to let you go, you would no longer be my guest. I would miss you.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Harry returned dryly and tried to still the trembling in his limbs. It might not be the wisest course of action to talk back at Voldemort, but at the moment, it was what sustained Harry. It reminded him of Snape. He hoped that Snape would be proud of him so far. He had kept his mind closed and had even managed to push down his fear as best he could. 

He hoped they would find him soon, because his defences could only last so much longer. He would eventually need to sleep, and he knew his guard would relax. It took years of training to keep one’s defences up when asleep. He had to hope that he was determined enough to keep Voldemort from digging too deeply.

“Your heart is not my primary concern,” Voldemort said as Nagini bit deeply into his ankle. He gasped and jerked, causing the collar to pull hard against his throat. The snake lapped at his blood and Voldemort hummed a satisfied sound. Harry’s scar twitched again, but softly. “You’ve saved yourself, Harry. How thoughtful.”

Harry snorted.

“Your blood tastes virgin, dear boy. You can’t argue.”

He shook his head as much as the collar and chain would allow. He could feel the clutch of it against his throat as it moved with him. “I have no control over what your pet tastes or does not taste in my blood.”

Voldemort stood from his seat and Harry heard him come closer. He tensed and his pulse spiked as fingers pressed at his throat to tip up his chin. “Interesting. I like it when my guests give me puzzles to occupy my time.”

“What’s the matter?” Harry gritted his teeth and tried to calm his racing heart. “World domination not keeping you as busy as you’d like?”

A low chuckle vibrated through the fingers under his chin. “I thought I’d like you, and I’m pleased to be right. Some of my previous guests haven’t been as participatory as you are.”

“Maybe if you didn’t chain your guests, they’d participate more.”

“Perhaps,” Voldemort replied and slipped his fingers down Harry’s chin, tracing over the collar before he moved down. He touched the slim chain dangling down his shirt and drew it out. The medallion bumped against his collarbone as Voldemort fingered it. “What’s this? A memento?”

Harry swallowed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. It’s pointless here.”

Voldemort’s fingers stroked over the medallion, touching Harry’s skin at intervals that left Harry biting his tongue to keep from shivering. “It has a magical property to it, but faint. What is it for?”

Harry shrugged, trying to move away as he did it. “I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it do much of anything.” Voldemort’s mind brushed up against his walls and he pushed everything back again, forming another wall. Soon enough, he wouldn’t have any space left to retreat.

“Who gave it to you?”

“What does it matter?

“It could matter a great deal. Even the smallest, most inconsequential of things can have a deep power to them, if you know how to harness it. If someone you love, or who loved you, gave you this trinket, it could have great power.”

Harry smiled and lifted an eyebrow. “A lesson from the Dark Lord himself. I should feel privileged.”

Voldemort slipped his hands along the medallion’s chain and unclasped it. The thin chain slithered against his skin as it pooled down into Voldemort’s waiting hands.

“If it is so inconsequential, you will certainly not miss it.”

Harry felt his heart sink as he heard Voldemort coil the chain in his hands and pull it away. While his hands weren’t free to hold the medallion and use it, he had certainly hoped he might get the chance at some point, but he buried those hopes away. Someone would come to rescue him. He had no portkey to save him this time.

Voldemort stayed where he crouched for a moment and Harry could feel how close he was, and he could feel the heat radiating off the man. He was certainly no illusion. “Are you hungry?” He asked, his voice scant inches away from Harry’s face.

He shifted away again and nodded. There was little point in lying. “Yes. I am.”

A long silence followed his words and Harry bit back a sigh. Control, he thought to himself angrily. He knew how to play this game. “May I have something to eat?”

“Of course.” Voldemort walked away and there was a clinking noise again. Dishes, Harry realised, before Voldemort returned and something wet touched his lips.

He jerked, but Voldemort shushed him. “It’s only fruit. I haven’t even bothered to poison it.”

“Good of you,” Harry replied and opened his mouth. The small piece of fruit Voldemort pushed into his mouth was dripping with juice. A peach, he guessed from the taste. The juices ran down his chin and he couldn’t do a thing about it. His stomach growled and another piece was placed against his lips.

A strangely familiar, feminine voice cried out a muffled warning in the back of his mind, sounding in part like Ginny as if from a long distance, but he was hungry and there was no other way. Unless Voldemort released his hands from behind his back, he had no way of eating without help. Voldemort continued to feed him, piece by piece, until finally the stream of various fruits ended. He had a sticky river of juices down his chin, but his stomach not longer screamed. A soft, damp cloth swiped over his mouth and chin and it smelled faintly of mint.

Harry chuckled bitterly. “Is the Dark Lord going to help me take a piss later, too?”

Voldemort laughed softly and touched his cheek. “No, I don’t think so, pretty boy. I believe I’ll let one of my inferiors handle that particular task. They are always so willing to help care for my guests.” His tone was soft, but his fingernails pricked into skin as he continued, “They’ve been eager to meet you, Harry. Impatient, even. I know they’ll be willing to help you with the cruder aspects of your stay.”

Harry failed to suppress his whimper.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger reminder: mentions of off-camera torture, psychological torture and Death Eater awfulness

Snape massaged his brow and looked up to scan his tired, sore eyes over the classroom. They were busily and silently working on their end of year exams, but never had he witnessed such a low spirit among them, even for an exam period. Dumbledore, for once, hadn’t put the entire school on hold because of The Boy Who Lived and final exams continued as originally intended. 

Harry missed nothing, of course. Months before, the Headmaster had given the laughable orders that Harry’s classes would be perfunctory, that he was to be excused from homework and exams due to ‘uncontrollable circumstances’. Mollycoddling the boy, Snape had thought at the time, and worse still, the orders would certainly reinforce Harry’s preconceptions that he was disposable, that he had no future beyond school for which to prepare. Snape had disagreed vehemently with the Headmaster, to no avail. 

Now, of course, those uncontrollable circumstances were vastly exacerbated.

Harry’s absence left more of a mark in the classes than simply an empty seat in the classroom. Snape’s gaze found Harry’s friends among the crowd of faces. Ron’s quill was against the paper, but it hadn’t moved in quite a while. Hermione was busily scribbling away, but even he could see the tears streaming silently down her face. Nearly every face in the room was a study of misery. He didn’t expect miracles for this exam period. The passing mark would need to be greatly lowered, lest the entire student population fail their year.

He stood slowly from behind his desk and made a round of the room, checking each student’s papers as he passed. Most of them were horrendously dismal, of course, and, unsurprisingly, Hermione Granger’s was not, even with the tears streaking through the ink. 

“This is your Potions final, Ms. Granger, not an invitation to dabble with watercolours,” he curled his lip as she looked up at him in surprise. “Clean up this mess.” He dropped a handkerchief onto her desk and swept past, although not before noting the look of startled gratitude that overtook her face.

Ron’s parchment was blank, without even the presence of effort, although he had managed to scribble his own name near the top of the parchment and had left several blobs of ink in haphazard places. He shook his head with a sigh, as he continued on. One of the blobs could be mistaken for a potions bottle if one squinted – with a half mark for correctly spelling his own name and for attempting to illustrate a potion, he could achieve a Dreadful rather than a Troll. But if Ron did not make an attempt, there was little more he could do. 

As he swept around the front of the room, Longbottom, in an unexpected feat of bravery, glanced up at him and they locked eyes for a tense second or two, before Snape nodded to him and Neville lowered his eyes and returned to his work.

While there were many long faces in the room, he was disappointed and disturbed to see that some of his Slytherins looked positively pleased, and Snape had to force himself not to turn his tense fury on them. Didn’t they understand what this meant? Were they so deluded to believe that Voldemort’s possession of Harry Potter was a thing over which to rejoice? It wasn’t a game. Harry hasn’t gotten lost while walking through the Forbidden Forest. He wouldn’t wander out after an hour and be the object of well-deserved ridicule and mockery. He’d been taken by _Bellatrix Lestrange_ and was being kept as Voldemort’s personal ‘guest’, a position no one in their right mind would ever seek, would ever wish upon their worst enemy. Snape knew this particularly well.

Snape made his way back to the front and sat again. He laid his hands flat against the tabletop and looked down at them. They were tinted yellow by his years with potions, and, while he knew of several cleansers that would be extremely effective, he had never bothered with the appearance of his hands before. It had been many, many years since he had had any desire to be noticed favourably, or noticed at all. He took several deep, meditative breaths and tried to put from his mind the memories which threatened to surface. 

A frantic rustle at the door broke the silence of the room, made the students leap in their seats, and set Snape’s heart thumping. Someone cursed softly as they retrieved their toppled inkwell. Snape stood on shaking legs, glad for his robes to hide this from the too-observant students, and he crossed the long room. He took in a deep breath and opened the door.

In a wild flutter of white wings, Hedwig flew in low over the students’ heads and perched on the back of his chair, dropping her parcel on the desk. She stretched her wings wide, seemingly aware of every eye upon her and then, satisfied with the attention, preened herself carefully. 

Snape stared for a long minute and then shook himself. “Back to work,” he ordered angrily and each head bowed again, although he could see some peeking out toward the owl, and Ron did not even pretend to return to the exam he wasn’t writing. The young man’s face had gone very pale.

He looked at the bird for a long moment, glancing at the letter on his desk, and he approached the owl uneasily. She eyed him in return as he reached to take the white envelope, and he turned it over. His name was written in silver ink across it. His breath caught in his throat and he looked at the owl again. She slid over on her perch and gazed at him with bright eyes.

He sat slowly, moving as if through water, and reached for his dragon-clawed letter opener. The red wax seal split easily and the paper fell open, revealing a letter addressed, Dear Severus.

He looked around the room again, but blindly. Had the entire space been on fire, with students screaming and running into the walls in a panic, he would not have noticed.

> _Dear Severus,  
>  If Hedwig has delivered this, then it’s happened. I don’t know what ‘it’ is, but it can’t be anything good. I might be dead. Or something else terrible has happened. I really do have the worst luck. This will only be delivered to you if Hedwig herself is worried about me. Speaking of, she’s going to be upset. Please look out for her. She’s a very good owl and a very good friend. She’ll be the same for you._
> 
> _I’m not even sure why I’m writing this to you. Will you even want it? Will you even read it? I hope you will. If nothing else, we’re friends now, right? Shocking as that is. Last year at this time, I hated you, or thought I did. What a difference a year can make._

Snape wished he were alone with this letter, but couldn’t bear to put it away until later. He had never liked public displays of emotion, but he was in great danger of being overtaken by one.

> _Maybe I should fill this with secrets and confessions, but you already know all of that. I don’t hide things well. Poker would never be my game. I have nothing new to tell you except what I’m feeling right now. And right now, I can’t sleep._
> 
> _This is my first night here in your rooms and I can’t sleep. I could ask you for a sleep draught, I suppose, but I’m not nearly brave enough for that. I’m sure I’ve embarrassed myself permanently in front of you, and Merlin only knows what you think of me. Hormonal seems to be the best description you’ve offered, though, and it certainly applies right now. All I can do is lay here in my bed and think of you. I know that sounds like the worst kind of cliché, but it’s the truth. I’m lying here wondering if you’re thinking of me._
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _There is so much I want from you, but mostly, I just want to know you. I want to be let inside your head, the way you’ve been in mine. I want that in a way that almost hurts, especially tonight._

__

Snape swallowed around a heavy lump in his throat. He cleared his throat and reached for his glass of water. He felt the owl shift closer until her wings just barely brushed against his hair.

> _You do care about me, don’t you? I’m not a complete dunderhead for thinking it, am I? I don’t know what to say to you. I want to tear this into little pieces, but… Maybe you’ll never read this anyway. Maybe it doesn’t matter._
> 
> _The point to this whole rambling letter, Severus, is that I care about you. No matter what happens to me, what happens to you, just remember that. I hope it means something to you. It means something to me.  
>  Harry_

  
Snape cleared his throat again and looked up. He found Draco watching him, his eyes narrowed and considering. Snape didn’t fool himself into thinking that he could continue as a spy amongst the Death Eaters. He cared for Harry, and he couldn’t keep up the pretence anymore. If one Malfoy knew, all Death Eaters knew and so too did Voldemort. Snape sighed and the owl at his shoulder nudged him sympathetically. He checked the hourglass at the edge of his desk and blinked. It had run dry. It had run dry and he hadn’t noticed.

“Time,” he called, and for once, no one groaned.

* * *

For some reason, Hermione kept reassuring him that he would be able to retake the exams. Ron wasn’t exactly sure why she bothered. Yes, he’d failed every single exam he’d written, but he couldn’t care less. He hadn’t put any effort into it. He had other things on his mind, and maybe she’d been able to put that aside long enough to impressively pass all her exams, but he couldn’t even understand why Dumbledore made them take the exams in the first place. There were more important things to think about. They had to find Harry.

It had been two weeks. Merlin only knew what had happened to him since. Voldemort wasn’t exactly known for his hospitality. Harry could be dead, could be in pieces, could be anything. Horrible things could be happening at the very moment and Ron didn’t just think so – he knew so. He only had to look at Snape to know it. The man looked like someone he cared about was being tortured. _That_ was how Ron knew. 

He couldn’t care less about the exams. He couldn’t understand Hermione. He couldn’t even look at her, for fear of saying something he’d regret later.

The time between the end of exams and the start of summer holidays had always been Ron’s favourite, but this year was a different story. Hogwarts was being kept open for all students who wanted to stay. Many didn’t, but the school was the safest place in Britain at the moment with all its wards, and quite a few students were taking advantage of that. Or having it taken advantage of by their parents. Ron would stay, as would Ginny, Neville and Hermione. Most of the professors were staying on. The Slytherins already had their bags packed and ready to go, which was why it surprised Ron to no end to find out that Draco and his two guard dogs were staying too. Snape had mentioned it with a careful casualness after yet another pointless meeting where the Order discussed what they were doing and exactly how much they _hadn’t_ accomplished. No one but the Death Eaters knew where Harry was at this point, and Snape had apparently been taken off the contact list.

Funny, thought Ron. Snape had been posing as a Death Eater for years now, and it was only now, when they were truly desperate for the knowledge Snape could gain, that Voldemort reached out his hand and snapped his connection. Ron could only imagine how Snape felt. Helpless, maybe. Useless. Powerless.

He sat on the bottom step of the hall’s staircase, chin resting on his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The school was deathly silent. The air hummed. Something was happening. Ron knew it. He could feel it. He just didn’t know what it was.

The doors flew open, and Ron jolted and sat up. Hagrid clomped in and shook himself like a dog to rid his coat and hair of the torrential rains pouring down outside. He looked up and spotted Ron, and then shook his head.

Ron slumped back down. No news. It was such a familiar refrain these days. No one seemed to have the slightest clue where Voldemort could be, where Harry could be. Ron wanted to scream. Britain wasn’t such a massive place that they could just lose two of the most influential wizards alive. They had to be somewhere.

The realisation began to sink in as he sat on that step, as Hagrid left uneasily without a word, as the silence of Hogwarts fell over him again, that, once and for all, he was in over his head. Ron wasn’t cut out to be the hero. He didn’t have the slightest clue what to do. Harry would know. Harry always knew. That was why he was the hero.

“And why I’m the sidekick,” he murmured to himself.

A snort brought his head up again. He turned to find Draco two steps above him, looking down at him with icy eyes. Ron felt his insides clench into something dangerous.

“What are you looking at?” He snapped.

“Nothing,” Draco shook his head with a crooked smile. “Just a sidekick, apparently.”

Ron growled. “Bugger off, Malfoy. Now’s not the time.”

“Time for what?” Draco took the remaining steps down and stood just to the side of Ron. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose. He had to have been practicing that move for years, Ron thought spitefully. It was a cheap copy of the Snape original. “For sitting still, doing nothing? Because that’s all you seem to have time to do.”

Ron flew to his feet and in seconds had Draco by the collar, slamming him into the wall. The sound of it echoed through the entire castle, it seemed, breaking that heavy silence. “Bloody Slytherin,” he hissed.

“Yes,” Draco replied, his composure undisturbed despite the ringing that must be in his ears. “I am a Slytherin. And you are a good little Gryffindor, blaming the many for the actions of the few. Tell me, does it get tiring being so perfect all the time, Weasley? Are you so blinded by your own superiority that you can’t see how wrong you are?”

“I’m not wrong, Malfoy,” he glowered and then demanded, “Wrong about what?”

“Not every Slytherin follows the Dark Lord, just as not every Gryffindor is a shining, blameless paragon of virtue.”

“Shut up, Malfoy! Don’t pretend to be innocent in this. I know you’re not. You’re a Malfoy.”

Draco sighed and pushed Ron away. He straightened his robes and looked at Ron with a level gaze. “And you’re a Weasley. Harry is a Potter. Our Potions Master is a Snape. Harry’s godfather was a Black. The Dark Lord is a Riddle. Don’t you understand yet?”

“What are you on about, Malfoy?”

Draco only shook his head. “If only we were all as single-minded as you, Ron. What a world this would be.” He shook his head again and walked away, leaving Ron to stare after him with the heavy feeling that he’d missed something important.

* * *

Harry’s body was on fire again, a fire that burned from the inside out. It stretched the length of his skin, it pulsed along his bones, it shook his teeth. It gripped his mind like claws. It was so completely inescapable. It was the air he sucked deep into his lungs. The fire invaded his body like a virus and soon, there would be no Harry. Harry would break and there would be only pain.

He had no idea how long it had been since this new phase of his capture had begun. The first of the Death Eaters had drawn a whimper from his lips, but he’d been careful since. He’d been so careful. He knew they wanted him to scream. They were waiting for it and Harry knew it would only keep up until he finally broke, but he couldn’t. He had to be strong. He had to fight as long as he could. He couldn’t let Voldemort win. If he ever survived this, if he ever returned, how could he look them in the face if he allowed himself to be broken? How could he look Severus in the eye again? He had never been broken, Harry was certain. No one could break Snape. Harry had to do the same. He needed control. He knew far too much: he knew of 12 Grimmauld place, he knew of the Order, he knew of Snape. He was the hope of the wizarding world. He couldn’t break.

But he could bend. He could bend quite a bit farther than he’d ever have imagined.

It had been several minutes since the last person had left and Harry hadn’t yet caught his breath again. His body still tingled from the healing spell, from the memory of what that spell had erased. He was amazed at how much pain his body could absorb and still function. Each time, he felt like it was the end. He was certain that it would be over. He wished it would be over. But it never was. They always pulled back before his very bones shattered. They pulled back when he was just on the edge of losing his mind. He hated each and every one of them for that.

It was worse going into it blind. If he could see them, watch their movement, he might be able to brace himself against it, but it was all so unexpected. 

Each person had a different idea of how to play with him, each had a different idea of pain. Each had such different tastes. It wasn’t always sexual. It wasn’t always physical. Cruciatus was a favourite, but some liked the sharp simplicity of a knife. A few liked Imperitus, but it wasn’t necessary. If they wanted to fuck his throat, it’s what they did. If they wanted to bend him over and tear him open, it’s what they did. There were no rules, save that Harry had to be whole when Voldemort returned. No scratches. No scars. No scars save the one that belonged to Voldemort. Harry belonged to Voldemort.

A damp cloth touched his face and he couldn’t summon the energy to either move away or move into it.

“You keep impressing me, Harry.”

Harry lay on his side, his elbow digging painfully into the hard ground, his cheek pressed into the cool tiles. His breath huffed out against the floor and he could feel the accumulating moisture against his cheek and down his neck, making the leather collar chafe against his throat. He felt Nagini slide against his curved back. He couldn’t have moved for worlds.

“Let me go,” he whispered. “Please.”

Voldemort touched his cheek and brushed his damp, tangled hair from his face. “You know what I want of you.”

Harry felt a hot tear escape and mix with the sweat on his face. “I’ll do anything…”

Voldemort didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stroked his hair, and Harry shuddered. Yes, he would do anything, and Voldemort knew it. So did every Death Eater and their every guest who had come to ‘visit’. Harry Potter, Dumbledore’s shining star, would do anything, and he wouldn’t say a single word against it. Not a single ‘stop’ or ‘no’ or ‘don’t’. Harry Potter wouldn’t fight. He gave everything, everything but the one thing Voldemort wanted. Because, unlike the Death Eaters, Voldemort wanted his mind and that was the one part of himself Harry hadn’t let them invade. 

The man still said nothing. There was nothing he needed to say. Harry knew. He knew the ‘visits’ would continue until he gave Voldemort what he sought, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let the man into his head, let him see everything he kept close. He couldn’t let Voldemort see him so completely naked. As soon as Voldemort touched his thoughts, his friends would be as good as dead. 

Harry knew that Ron’s family was the best way to hurt him. He knew that Ron was deathly afraid of spiders. He knew that Ron needed time to think before he acted. And if Harry knew those truths, Voldemort would know them too. And if Voldemort knew them, Ron hadn’t a chance. And Severus… Harry had stopped thinking of Severus. He had pushed every memory back into a dark, locked box, because he needed to know that those memories would be protected, even if he did break. He couldn’t let Voldemort touch Severus again. He couldn’t bear to be responsible for that.

“You are, by far, my favourite guest, Harry,” Voldemort sat on the floor by his head and kept up the stroking, his fingers running from scalp to spine. Harry wished he could pull away, but these were the only moments of kindness he received since waking up in this dark place. He knew it wasn’t true kindness. He knew it, and he hated himself for it, but he always leaned into the touch. 

“It has been over twenty years since I was so taken by someone. He was quite a bit like you, I suppose, especially at first. So strong, so angry. So much potential…” Voldemort trailed off and his hand stilled on Harry’s neck, just below the collar. Harry embarrassed himself further by making a low moan of protest. Voldemort’s hand resumed and Harry was glad he couldn’t see the man’s face.

“In other ways you are quite different. He loved me, you see. He loved me dearly. He would have done anything had I asked it of him, and he very nearly did.” Voldemort’s voice was soft and Harry wondered if anyone else had ever heard this from him. He wondered if anyone had ever been this close to Voldemort before.

“Very nearly, I say, because, in the end, there was something I asked of him which he refused. Perhaps if I hadn’t asked him to make that final leap, everything would be different.” Voldemort lapsed into silence again, with only the rustle of his robes as he stretched out his legs before him. Harry knew this. He knew what was expected of him. He gathered his faintly returning strength and lifted his head to Voldemort’s lap. Voldemort touched his forehead in approval and kept up the gentle petting. Nagini curled about them both and rested her head over Harry’s legs.

“I’ll tell you this, Harry, because I think we’ve reached a point where we can understand each other. Haven’t we?”

Harry nodded, his cheek moving against Voldemort’s thigh.

The man simply breathed for a moment, and Harry listened to it. He knew the sound of the man now, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart. He knew he could outlive Dumbledore and still never forget Voldemort’s heartbeat.

“Yes, we understand each other. Which is why I know you will understand this. You see, he was my favourite. Oh, I loved them all back in those days, when everything was fresh and filled with such potential. They loved me in return. Those days were so… beautiful. I miss those days, but I don’t blame you for the end of them. No, I caused my own end, I confess. I caused my own end because he was my favourite and when he told me no, I couldn’t bear to kill him. I _should_ have, of course. No one says no to me, not then and not now. They loved me and they feared me. That’s how it should be. But he… He didn’t fear me as he should, and by the end, I no longer wanted him to.”

Voldemort wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and drew him closer, his hands moving against Harry’s back now, stroking up and down his bound arms. Nagini settled against them sleepily. “Love is a dangerous thing, so much more dangerous than hatred. Love has toppled more kingdoms than time, you know. So dangerous. Have you ever been in love, Harry?”

Fingers brushed against Harry’s mind and he resisted weakly, but Voldemort no longer pushed. He simply sighed and said, “Never mind. It makes no difference. You still understand. I loved him and what is worse, I no longer saw him as my inferior. He was so strong, so powerful. So much potential, it shone from his eyes. He was so alive with power then. So much like yourself.” Voldemort shook his head. Harry could feel the movement throughout his body. “And that was my downfall. I loved him far too much. I asked him to kill someone for me and he refused.”

Voldemort felt Harry’s movement and he chuckled. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. He’d killed for me before, and often. He had a particular flair for poisons. He made such wonderful poisons. But no, this time he refused because I asked him to kill someone else he loved. Someone he loved _more_ than he loved me.”

Harry could feel sleep coming over him, and he relaxed into it. He knew Voldemort would take nothing from him while he slept. The man didn’t want to take, he wanted Harry to give it of his own free will. He wanted Harry to choose. Yes, they understood one another well now.

“And when he refused, I almost loved him more, I think. It’s so hard to tell the difference between hatred and love sometimes. Passion can take on so many different guises. If I had not demanded he do as I ordered, things would have been very different. He would never have left me. And I would never have died.”

Harry’s mind recognized the story as changing. His mind picked up on the change in Voldemort’s voice, but he was so thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and body. He couldn’t hold on to learn the end. He fell away into blissful oblivion.

* * *

Something was calling her. Usually, Ginny ignored such midnight callings. She wasn’t going to be controlled by her gifts. She was the one who controlled them. But everything was different now that Harry was gone. In this new world of uncertainty, where no one knew anything and no one knew the first place to look, she felt like the one point of knowledge. The Order could look high and low and they would find nothing. Voldemort didn’t want to be found, and Ginny could feel Harry’s path drifting farther away from her own. He was pulling away, losing anchor. But the knowledge of where he was, it was still out there and knowledge always wanted to be found.

And now it was calling her. She had to listen.

She pulled a burgundy dressing gown over her nightclothes and slid her feet into slippers, and she crept from the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady snorted in her sleep and tossed over, rolling out of the frame and into her neighbour’s. As Ginny swept down from the tower, listening to a calling few others could hear, she pulled her long hair from her face and fastened it out of her way. The call was growing louder the deeper she went into Hogwarts. She could have followed it blind. It led her quickly and efficiently through the maze that was her school. It shifted the universe to accommodate her. Hogwarts rearranged itself and in short time, she found herself at the door to the Slytherin common room. The portrait on the door eyed her suspiciously, but a voice whispered the password in her left ear and she spoke it confidently. The serpentine portrait glared at her and hissed a warning, but swung open nonetheless.

Although she had never seen this room, never stepped foot into this Slytherin world, she didn’t spare it a glance. The calling was so loud now, so loud she could only barely hear her own heartbeat. It pulled her up the stairway from the common room and to a closed door. Draco looked up at her as she stepped into the room and his pale eyebrows rose. 

“How did you–”

“Where are you going?” She interrupted as she stepped further into the room. His trunk lay open before him, but it was already filled and ready to go. She had arrived, she knew, only moments before he would leave.

“I’m–”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening, the lie falling from his lips as he stared at her. The last shirt in his hand fell from numb fingers and Ginny stepped forward to pick it up. He stared at her and she had never seen such fear in his eyes before.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he breathed and she nodded.

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know what depends on–”

“I know,” she finished and handed him the shirt. He took it blindly and she touched his shoulder. “I _know_. I won’t say a word. Just… bring him back. Please.” She paused again, her hand gripping his arm. “When you see him, remind him to harness the magic. Tell him… Tell him to _be_ the magic.”

Draco shook his head. “I can’t promise anything. I can’t risk…”

She nodded again. “I know. Do your best. It’s all we can ask of anyone.”

He looked at her for a long while and she felt surprisingly exposed under his pale gaze. She supposed it was similar to how people felt when she looked at them. Unsettled. Naked. Connected.

“How can you understand so easily, Ginny? You and your brother are like night and day. How is it possible for two Weasleys to be so essentially different?”

She smiled, because that was an easy question to answer. “The same way two Malfoys can be different, I suppose.” She reached up and straightened the knot of his tie and patted it smooth. “Good luck.”

He looked up from his tie and smiled tentatively at her. “Thank you.”


	7. Chapter 7

In his more lucid moments, Snape wondered if he were going insane.

He could hear Harry sometimes; feel him along the edges of his mind, as if they were in the midst of an Occlumency lesson. He could feel him as a tangible presence. He could _smell_ him, for Merlin’s sake. Snape could nearly taste him, a salty taste, like the ocean, like tears and sweat.

Snape hoped he was going insane. If he wasn’t, if he was somehow connected to Harry, then Harry was quite worse off than any of his friends hoped. Snape couldn’t stand to sit in on any more Order meetings, with Harry’s dark, tired presence over his shoulder. They all expected to somehow find Harry whole and safe and untouched, and when he had tried to tell them otherwise, they’d grown uncomfortable, as if he had done something impolite, passing gas in a silent room. 

They didn’t want to hear that Harry would be changed when and if they recovered him. But Snape knew it. He knew it far too well. No one was the same after Voldemort. The Dark Lord wasn’t someone who used a soft touch. He wormed himself bone-deep, until he settled heavy against your soul, and no matter how many years might pass, no matter how much you might strive to change, Voldemort could never fully be excavated from a person’s soul. He would do the same to Harry. The young man would have to work hard to recover. That is, if he hadn’t already given up.

He had said as much to Ron Weasley one evening and then promptly wished he hadn’t. Red hair was more than a colour. It was a warning. Ron had turned on him with a Weasley fury and Snape knew better now than to discuss anything with him. Ron teetered on the border between the wishful thinking of the Order and the truth. He lived in an uncertain denial. Snape left him to it. Denial was a comforting thing when one could manage it.

The Weasley girl was a thing unto her own. She wandered about in a foggy-eyed daze, neither here nor there. It was unsettling to be in her presence for long. If someone spoke to her, her eyes would flicker, as if back to life, but she would quickly return to her daze. The other girl, Granger, fluttered about like a caged bird, pressing against windows and scraping along the walls. Her hollow eyes were haunting. She needed to be useful. Anyone could see that. He should do it himself, he knew. It could be as easy as having her scrub cauldrons, for Merlin’s sake, if he told her it might help Harry, but they all existed in their own private worlds now. Harry had been the invisible tie to bind them, and without him, they were as scattered as smoke.

The door to his office opened, and Dumbledore came in without so much as a by-your-leave. “Severus…”

“No.”

Dumbledore stopped a foot away from his desk and blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Snape replied.

“No to… what?”

“Whatever you were about to ask me. I will not do it.” He held his finger to mark his place in the book and looked at the man calmly. “Unless you are asking me to finally venture from this enforced seclusion you have kept us all under and at long last begin the search for Harry, I will not do it.”

Dumbledore blinked again and sank down slowly into the chair opposite Snape’s desk. “I wanted to ask if you had seen Draco Malfoy recently.”

“Then the answer is still no.”

“He has gone missing.”

“That is hardly my concern. It is summer. If he chooses to leave, he’s entitled.”

“Well, yes, but if he didn’t choose to leave…”

“He did,” Snape replied. “Of course he chose to leave. One wonders why he chose to remain in the first place. With his connections, he could be standing at his father’s side at this very moment, practicing his Cruciatus curses. Harry is no doubt enjoying the visit.”

Dumbledore pursed his lips. “Severus, we can’t give up the hope that-”

“No!” Snape slammed the book closed. “Do not speak to me of this. You claim to be knowledgeable of Voldemort, simply because you know his true name, his past. I have known Tom Riddle, Albus. I know him well. I know what to expect from him when he favours a person. He feared you, Albus, but not me. No, I had the misfortune of knowing what it is to be loved by Tom Riddle. That is something you have never known. And that is something that Harry now shares with me. So do not speak to me of hope. Harry has given up hope, I assure you.”

“Which is precisely why we cannot.” Dumbledore’s voice grew soft and coaxing, but Snape was no trapped bird. Dumbledore could go speak with the Granger girl if he expected a positive reaction from that tone. “We have to hope, Severus, that he will be returned to us.”

Snape sighed. He sat forward and fixed Dumbledore with his dark, hooded eyes. “Harry may well be returned to us, bodily, Albus, but he will never be the same. He will _never_ be the same. If he has not yet been broken, he has been bent as easily as a green willow staff. Try, if you will, to remember me after I took my leave of him, and remember that, despite my appearance, I chose to stay by his side as long as I did. I didn’t fight him. I loved him back.”

“Severus…”

He reopened the book. “If you have nothing else to say to me, perhaps you’d be kind enough to leave.”

Hedwig fluttered down from her high perch on the ceiling and landed at Snape’s shoulder. She glared at Dumbledore and hissed.

Dumbledore raised a shaggy eyebrow and then nodded. “Very well, as you’ve clearly acquired powerful allies. But please be aware that you may have given up hope, and that Harry may have given up hope, but I have not.” He looked directly at the owl and then back at Snape. “We will retrieve him.”

Snape ignored him and did not look up from his book until his office door closed again. He sagged back against the seat and Hedwig nuzzled his cheek worriedly. He reached a hand up to scratch her neck. “What do you believe?”

She let out a low cry and nipped his fingers lightly.

He nodded. “Yes, a miracle would be advantageous. I hope Harry has one left in him.”

* * *

The night was chilly for June. Lupin could see the small puff of breath with each exhale and the grass underfoot was crisp with a trace of frost. It would be gone by daybreak, he knew, but it was a welcome respite from the smothering heat and humidity of the past few weeks. Like the others, he had been trapped within walls for far too long now. Dumbledore had his reasons, of course, and Lupin knew… Well, with so few of them out looking and very few who knew the precise reason why, it made for an uncomfortable tension in the air. Not that anyone had an idea of where to look, of where to begin, but…

Lupin sighed and stopped walking. The Whomping Willow flicked its branches about as if dreaming and Lupin watched it. A heaviness fell over his heart and he put one hand up to his chest as if he could rip the pain from himself. The moon shone through the branches of the Willow, but he didn’t need to look at it to know it was waxing. He could feel the pull of it through his blood. He had little more than a week. He had already begun his treatments of wolfbane. Madame Selene would be clearing his room for him, busily preparing for the influx of residents. He didn’t want to leave. He hated the wolf, hated it for dragging him away from what needed to be done.

He closed his eyes as a crisp breeze pushed up against his back, lifting his hair and dipping beneath his collar.

He tried to remember a time when he hadn’t hated the wolf quite so terribly and the moment came up from the depths of his mind as if it had been waiting to be called. Sirius. Padfoot. The wind twirled around him again and he shivered, opening his eyes to see the Willow shiver in the cool breeze as well.

Sirius had made everything bearable. Had anyone ever had a more cheerful outlook than that man? He remembered the day they met, at the station platform at King’s Cross. Remus had had his family with him. His father had been busily checking and double-checking his papers, his tickets, his trunks and bags – everything to keep himself busy, to keep himself from crying. His mother hadn’t been hiding her tears and she hadn’t been able to take her hands off him. Every moment he’d pulled away from her, she’d wrap herself around him again. He smiled, thinking back on it. A young werewolf’s first day away from home. He’d been burning up with embarrassment at the time, but he knew that he hadn’t been the only one to be so wrapped into their parents’ arms. But he hadn’t been looking at everyone else. He’d been watching the boy with the dark ponytail, the silver earring, and the oblivious independence.

Sirius had come alone to King’s Cross. He wore Muggle clothes: flared jeans, boots, a red button-down shirt, and a leather jacket. He stood to one side, his trunks on the trolley by his feet, his hands buried in his pockets, and he’d just stood there, surveying the students as if he were mapping them for conquest. Lupin hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him. He had never seen anyone quite like him. Lupin had always been like his few friends at home, young and innocent. They were only eleven, after all. They still wore the clothes their mothers picked for them, and Lupin’s trunks were filled with ‘nice trousers’ and ‘good shirts’. He still had a bedtime. This boy, somehow he knew this boy had never had a bedtime. He was so completely different from everything Lupin had ever known. He hadn’t been able to look away.

The boarding call was announced and his mother had wrapped him in one last, desperate hug, and over her shoulder, his eyes had met Sirius’. And the boy had winked.

It had all been so easy between the two of them since, and nothing had ever come easy for Lupin. He was shy and quiet and studious and Sirius was everything but. Sirius laughed big, talked big, lived big. He seemed to make friends as easily as he breathed, and Lupin could only walk in his shadow, awestruck by Sirius’ ease. He was constantly afraid that Sirius would leave him behind, but it never happened. Where Sirius went, Lupin went also. Sirius’ friends were Lupin’s friends. It came to a point during their first year at Hogwarts where if someone saw one without the other, they would wonder what was wrong. They weren’t Sirius and Remus, two separate, disconnected entities. No, they were Sirius-and-Remus. Even when they met James and his shadow Peter… James who swam as easily through life as Sirius did, Lupin was never forgotten. Sirius was James’ best friend. Lupin was Sirius’. Nothing had ever made him glow quite as much as that knowledge.

It had been Sirius’ idea for the rest of them to become animagi. James and Peter had gone along because it was fun and dangerous and forbidden, and nothing had ever appealed to James more than the forbidden, but it was only Sirius who understood exactly how much it meant to Lupin. James became a stag, the noble, untouchable of the forest. Peter became a rat, which they had teased him mercilessly over, no matter how useful it could be from time to time. But Sirius had become a massive black dog, and Lupin knew it was as close to a wolf as an animagus could become. James had become a stag for the pride. Peter, a rat for the deviousness. Sirius had become a dog for Lupin… for the loyalty.

The wind danced around him again and he pulled his cloak around himself tighter. The Willow shook itself and then drooped, branches trailing upon the ground, bent as a weeping man’s spine. Lupin looked at it and he didn’t need to move and venture inside to know what the Willow kept hidden. It hid more than just the passage to the Shrieking Shack, the secret headquarters of the Marauders. It also hid a secret that James and Peter had never known. It was a Sirius-and-Remus secret. Yes, the Willow knew them both better than their own friends had.

The grass behind him crunched, followed by a soft cry and a muffled curse, and he turned to find Nymphadora Tonks tripping over her over-long robe as she strolled up the lawn behind him. She had flamingo-pink hair and a canary-yellow robe slung over her shoulders, but beneath it, he could see her ripped, patched jeans and her safety-pinned T-shirt, and it made him smile. She reminded him, at times, of the old Sirius, the one from before… before Azkaban. Before everything had fallen to ruin.

She smiled as she reached him and slid an arm around his slim waist, hugging herself to his side. “Visiting old friends?”

He nodded and looked back at the tree. It was sleeping now, he could tell from the even movements, as if it were breathing. Dreaming.

“He’s strong tonight.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s haunting me.”

“He would if he could,” Tonks smiled up at him. “He never left your side for long. I’ve seen the pictures.” She grinned and hugged him tighter. “All the girls must have been so jealous of you back then. I don’t think he ever connected with anyone the way he did with you.”

Lupin’s breath hitched. He looked at the moon and then said softly, “I loved him.”

Tonks’ grip on him froze and she turned up her head again. He smiled and kept his eyes on the moon.

“Did he…”

He nodded.

“Oh god…” She breathed. “Did you… I mean… were you…”

His lips curled up further into his smile and he shrugged. “We never had something official. Never like James and Lily. We never dated or anything so trite as that. We just…” He shrugged again. “We were Sirius-and-Remus. It was all we needed.”

“Oh, Remus…”

He grinned and curled his arm around her shoulders. “It’s alright, Tonks. It’s been years. Decades.”

Her eyes widened. “You were… What about when he was sent to Azkaban? Did you…”

“He asked me to trust him. Begged me to believe him, believe that he was innocent. He swore to me that he could never do that to James and Lily. He cried. I’d never seen him cry before.” He shook his head, eyes on the moon again. “I wanted to believe him, but… I couldn’t. He knew. I know he knew. We could never hide anything from each other. I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again.”

“And when he escaped? What did you think?”

His mouth twisted into a self-mocking smile. “I thought I’d been right about what he’d done. I thought he’d deserved to be in Azkaban. I’d hated him for betraying us. I never stopped loving him.”

“But…” She began breathlessly. “When you knew he was innocent… Did you at least… I mean, if it had been me I would have…”

“Would you? I’d all but sent him to Azkaban. I’d given up on him and he’d been innocent. All those years… and you saw him. If you’ve seen the pictures, you know how he’d changed. I’d killed him. I betrayed him and killed him, as much as Peter did James.” He tightened his arm around Tonks and clenched his teeth. “And he still loved me. He forgave me. But I couldn’t forgive myself. And now, it’s too late. He’s gone again. And this time, it’s absolute. I will never see him again.”

Tonks buried her face in his side but Lupin had no tears left to share with her. He’d already drained himself over what he’d lost. He had no companion to run with during the moon’s high now. The wolf within him had mated for life, and Lupin could see no other either. They were both left to run alone. He smiled bitterly and the Willow shook itself wide, blocking the moon from his sight.

* * *

“I’ve had enough of this,” Ron exclaimed as he burst into Snape’s study, slamming open the door. Snape’s teacup rattled on the table top, and it went flying off the edge as Ron banged his fists on the table. 

Snape watched the cup fly and then raised his eyebrow. “Enough of what, precisely?”

“Enough of doing nothing! Harry has been gone for too bloody long and Merlin only knows what’s happening to him. I’m sick of meetings and talking and doing nothing. Aren’t you?”

Snape shut his book and nodded. “Extremely.” He flicked his wrist and lit the study’s candles. The young man’s face was pale in the sudden light. He looked younger than his seventeen years, but his eyes shone hard and ancient. There would be no children left among Harry’s companions by the end of the summer, Snape thought to himself. 

Ron nodded at him and flattened his palms against the table. His fingernails were ragged and bitten. “Then let’s do something. I can’t do it on my own. I’m no Auror. I’m just a bloody student and not even a good one at that. I’m nothing that even looks like a hero, but you can do it, can’t you?”

Neither of them were heroes, Snape wanted to say. Heroism was nothing to which he aspired. Even during his turbulent twenties, all he had ever wanted was knowledge. But Ron wasn’t asking him to be a hero. He was asking for help. And so he replied, “Yes, I can do it. Dumbledore–”

“Fuck Dumbledore’s rules,” Ron snapped back angrily and Snape had a sudden and disconcerting flashback of himself saying the very same thing, before his own fall. “Don’t give me any of that _‘but Dumbledore says’_ shite. He didn’t say anything when Harry was doing the nasty down here in the dungeons, and he’s not doing anything now either. I don’t know what he’s on about, but Harry is not going to get found with us sitting around here with our thumbs twisting up our arses.”

“Colourfully put, Mr. Weasley, though I agree with you. What do you have in mind?”

Ron let out a long breath and sat down in the chair. “I overheard Moody talking to Tonks and Lupin this morning. About rumours coming out of Wales over the past few months. Thought we could start there. Poke around a bit.”

Snape watched the young man pick at his raw fingernails, watched the tension in his shoulders. Ron would need watching. Careful watching. But he also needed to get out of Hogwarts. That much had to be clear to anyone, even Dumbledore. The young man had enough tension built up in him to take down buildings once he finally exploded. 

“Yes,” he answered and Ron’s head snapped up like he hadn’t expected Snape to agree. “Wales is a good start. The Dark Lord has previously made his home there. Pack lightly and say goodbye to those you feel the need. We will leave at daybreak.”

Ron’s eyes went wide and then he nodded quickly and shot to his feet. “Yes, good. Daybreak. Um… where…?”

“The main entrance should do. But be sure to pack lightly. We will begin in a small town which I vaguely remember from my time within that circle. In my experience, the Dark Lord prefers the ancient homesteads built far from civilization. We will find an abundance of those in Wales.”

“Yes, ‘course. And I will, I’ll remember to pack light. Good. I’ll be there.” He turned and made for the door, only stopping once he had one foot in the hallway. He turned and Snape raised his eyebrow again.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron shook his head. “Just… thanks. For… understanding. I think I’m starting to… um… I hope we can get Harry back, for you.”

Snape closed his eyes. He heard Ron hesitate a moment longer and then the door clicked shut.

* * *

She found Hermione sitting alone in the Astronomy Tower. The sunrise shone pink on the horizon through the tall windows and cast a pale, soft light over everyone’s misery. Hermione sat wrapped in a pale blue shawl and she hugged it to herself as she gazed out across the stretch of green toward Hogwarts’ boundaries. At the sound of Ginny’s footsteps, she turned and Ginny didn’t need the daylight to know she’d been crying. Her skin was pale. Her hair flew about her face in a tangle and her eyes were wide and open and haunted. She looked as substantial as a ghost.

“He’s gone.”

Ginny frowned a moment, even as she sat and wrapped her friend in her arms. Her mind moved, weaving itself through the filaments of knowledge that thrust themselves at her. Once, she hadn’t looked, not unless asked, not unless she thought it necessary, but it was necessary now. It wasn’t enough now. It worked better when she touched the person, so she hugged Hermione to herself. She could follow her friend’s paths so much easier that way. She shuddered as she saw the dark and shadowed path ahead of Hermione, misty and uncertain and sinister. _Here be monsters_ , she thought.

“Neville came and told me and I… He wasn’t even going to say goodbye. He was… Ginny, he was so angry when I found him, I couldn’t even… He didn’t want me to touch him, not at all. He almost… he didn’t, but… He’s so angry.” Hermione’s breath escaped her in sharp, rattling cries. “What’s happened to us, Ginny? We’re so lost. All of us. I can’t even… I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to do. Nothing I know helps me, nothing I’ve learned, nothing. All I have ever been was my books, and what good are books now? Harry… I can feel him pulling away, can you?”

Ginny nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around her friend’s shaking shoulders. Yes, she could feel it. They were losing Harry. She could feel him cracking. It was only so much longer before he broke.

“And Ron… he’s pulling away from me. He’s leaving me behind. And even you… you’re so…” Hermione shook her head and leaned her cheek against Ginny’s shoulder. “You live somewhere else now. I can see it in your eyes. And Neville is busy being… I don’t even know. He’s taking care of everything, like he doesn’t have anything holding him back anymore. And you’re all leaving me behind. I have nothing to give. I’ve never felt so… God, Ginny, so useless.”

Ginny hushed her. “You’re not useless, Hermione. Nobody here is useless. We’re all just… floating about, trying to find our purpose. I’m doing the same thing. Do you think I know what I’m doing? All I can do is feel. What’s so useful about that? I can’t do anything about it. I can’t save Harry. I can’t save you or Ron or Snape. I can just watch and know and… Merlin, Hermione. I’m so alone.”

Hermione shifted in the circle of her arms and they held each other as the sun rose higher in the sky. Ginny opened her eyes and she saw, in the distance, both Snape and Ron turn to look at Hogwarts from the edge of the school’s boundaries. Her eyes shifted and she saw their paths join and merge. The two men gazed at Hogwarts and then looked at each other. She watched them, and their paths, disappear.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger reminder: off-camera torture, psychological torture and Death Eaters being Death Eaters

Dumbledore steepled his hands and gazed around the small circle of people. Candlelight flickered off the stone walls, casting long shadows beneath their eyes. They were all tired; it was plain to see. Far too much rested on the shoulders of these four men. 

Moody sat low and back in his chair, arms crossed thickly over his chest. One eye was fixed on Dumbledore, but the second, magical eye skittered around the room, scanning each and every face, every corner. Beside him, Hagrid looked like a nightmare attending a children’s tea party as he towered and glowered over the table, perched in a chair far too small for his size. His palms lay flat against the tabletop and he glared about the circle, as if he were only barely restraining himself from tearing them all to pieces.

Across from them sat Lupin, his face pale in the candlelight. White bandages wound around each of his hands and wrists, and his amber eyes sparked with a restrained wildness. The full of the moon approached, and in respect for it, an acrid-smelling tankard of wolfsbane potion steamed beside his elbow. Lupin reached for it and winced at the first sip. He set it back on the table and Neville wrinkled his nose, casting an apologetic look toward Lupin.

Two chairs sat empty on either side of Dumbledore.

He cleared his throat and the four pairs of eyes turned toward him. Moody’s magical eye paused for a moment before returning to its wild spinning.

“Everything is proceeding as expected.”

Hagrid snorted and grumbled low into his beard. Moody’s eye swerved over and across him. 

Dumbledore looked at him with narrowed eyes and asked in a tight voice, “Have you anything to add, Hagrid?”

The large man looked up sharply and growled low. “Don’t like this. Don’t like this, not one bit. Don’t like puttin’ Harry into this, or puttin’ Ron and Hermione into this. Too young, them. And ‘specially don’t like that Malfoy’s in this. He’s just trouble, that one.”

Neville tipped his head to one side and said, “We have to trust Draco. He’s the only one who can get close to Harry.”

“Rubbish, it is. Don’t like it one bit. To think what that monster might be doin’ to our Harry…”

Dumbledore sighed. “We’ve discussed this. It has to be done.”

Hagrid growled again and slouched lower in the chair. His thick brows shadowed his narrowed eyes. “I care ‘bout Harry. D’y’think I give one rat’s arse ‘bout the damnable prophecy?”

“You’re here because you must,” Moody rasped. “It named us and we’re here. No sense fighting it. You see what happens when you fight it. Just look at Snape, poor bastard.”

Lupin sipped the steaming drink again. He shook his head. “We should have let Severus in on this. We should have told him everything. The prophecy numbers him among this circle as well.”

Neville sat forward and argued, “It doesn’t call for him the same way. He’s one of the pieces, not one of the players.”

“He is a player,” Dumbledore corrected gently. “But he follows another path.”

“Yeah, a path straight into young Harry’s pants,” Moody rumbled beneath his breath.

Hagrid’s fist came down hard on the table and the heavy wood groaned. “Rubbish! All of this. I won’ hear of it! I never asked for this, me. All I wanted–”

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore rubbed a hand over his forehead and removed his hat. “I appreciate your concerns, of course, but we haven’t the time for it. We are the players. We have a job to do.”

“Don’ hafta like it…”

Lupin sipped his drink again and grimaced. “None of us like it, Hagrid, but Dumbledore’s right. The prophecy names each of us as the key orchestrators. It is our job to see to it that events follow through. Harry will never be capable of defeating Voldemort without the knowledge he’s gaining now. It’s necessary.”

“Regretful, but necessary.” 

Neville shook his head slowly and propped his elbows on the table. He rested his chin in his palms and looked at Dumbledore. “You know very well that I don’t agree with this any more than Hagrid does,” he glanced over at the glowering giant. “Prophecies can be wrong. They are _often_ wrong. They can easily be misinterpreted.” 

Dumbledore shook his head. “Everything is proceeding according to the predictions. We cannot be wrong.”

Hagrid growled again and the chair beneath him creaked ominously. “We’d better be right. It isn’t just Harry we’re puttin’ to hell ‘n back. You shoulda seen Ron ‘fore he went tearin’ off with Severus. And Hermione–”

“Hermione’s losing her mind,” Ginny said from the now open doorway and drew all eyes toward her. She was dressed in night clothes, with an overlarge sweater wrapped about her small body. The sleeves trailed over her slender fingers and, as she propped her hand against the doorframe, pooled down around her elbow. Dumbledore lifted one eyebrow and Moody shot to his feet.

“Morgana’s leathered teats, girl, how did you get in here?”

She ignored him and sat in the empty seat beside Neville. He stared back at her apprehensively as she said, “A room full of men who think they know more than others… I’m sure great decisions are made here.”

“Indeed they are,” Dumbledore replied as he willfully misinterpreted her statement, “but I believe we are all curious to know how you found us.”

“I was led here,” she answered simply and sat back, crossing her arms. “Now, what’s this all about?”

Neville hesitated a moment, and then touched a hand briefly to her arm. “This is the inner fold of the Order of the Phoenix, Ginny,” he said in a quiet voice and tipped his head to include the others in his gesture.

She scanned her blue eyes over each of them slowly. Her gaze was unflinching, and Lupin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as she passed her scrutiny over him. She turned her eyes over each of them in turn until she stopped on Dumbledore, her eyes were wide and aghast with discovered knowledge. Her hands were clenched on the edge of the table, her knuckles white with strain. “You… all of you? You’ve done this purposefully? You’ve _chosen_ to do this?”

Neville’s cheeks flushed with shame. “We don’t have much choice, Ginny. It has to be done.”

“No, it doesn’t! Merlin’s _blood!_ Nothing is set in stone! This didn’t have to happen. There were so many others paths that could–”

Dumbledore cut in using a sharp, harsh voice none had heard from him before. “You see possibilities, Miss Weasley. I see fact. To defeat Voldemort, Harry must know him, better than anyone else. He must love him. There is no other way.”

“You’re killing him! Hasn’t he been through enough without–”

“Enough!” Dumbledore snapped and she sat back, eyes wide. “That is enough, Miss Weasley. I have valued your opinions to a point, but for this I must draw the line. Harry is my responsibility. As is Voldemort. The prophecy must be kept, for there is no other way. Only Harry can defeat Voldemort, and nothing but what he undergoes now can prepare him for that task. We cannot question the prophecy.”

She stared at him and then looked around the circle. All but Moody avoided her eyes, and she let out a loud, expletive-filled breath. “What prophecy? What could possibly be so important, so trustworthy, as to lead you all to do this to Harry? What?”

Neville touched her arm again and drew her attention. He gazed at her with sad, pale eyes and began to speak. _“He Who Must Not Be Named has but one weakness and that is love. For to know is to love and to love is to know, and he who knows the defeat of this man must be the one who has loved and been loved in return.”_

She stared at him. The words echoed in her mind with a sharp clarity, and a terrible taste rose in her throat. “Why can’t there be another way?”

“We have sought another way,” Dumbledore said gently and she turned her gaze to see the same sadness mirrored in his eyes. “We have found none. Harry must love Voldemort to defeat him. It is the only way.”

“This will kill him,” Ginny said, her eyes fixed on Dumbledore. “You’re putting a very high price on He-Who… on V-voldemort’s defeat.” She pushed the name from her mouth. “A very high price.” She looked around the circle again. Hagrid nodded in agreement at her words; Moody glowered. Neville curled his fingers into fists against the table, but it was Lupin she came to last.

“You are the last of his family. You do this to him?”

Lupin’s amber eyes glittered in the candlelight, but he nodded. “I must. I must believe that Harry is strong enough for this. If I don’t…” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Harry is our only hope. He has to love Voldemort. He has to know him in a way we do not. He has to–”

She stood and cut him off. “Then I wish you all luck. I hope your prophecy is true. I hope Harry survives. I hope he can forgive you. I don’t think I can.” She left, the room silent in her wake.

Neville looked down at his hands. His face was very pale in the candlelight. “The prophecy is true, isn’t it? Harry won’t… What if Voldemort breaks him?”

“I have faith,” Dumbledore said firmly. “We must all have faith. Harry is strong. He will not break. We must have faith.” His eyes were bright as he turned back to Neville. “Harry will not break.”

* * *

Ron stood inside the doorway to the small room and he gazed around it, taking it in. Two thin, narrow beds. One rough table. Two spindly chairs. One small, smudged window, releasing a chill draft, stirring the curtains. It was bare and dull and cheap. He set his bag down on the bed closest to the door and furthest from the drafty window, and then turned to look at Snape.

The man sniffed at the room and glared around it with sharpened features. He narrowed his eyes at the window and brought out his wand, flicking it in annoyance at the window. The curtains stilled as the cold draft was staunched, and Snape tucked the wand back into his robe with satisfaction. He set his own bag down on the remaining bed and said without turning, “We will remain here for a time. Voldemort is quite adept at staying hidden, but not so adept as to escape the notice of the local people. We can reassess the situation when we have acquired more knowledge.”

Ron nodded. It sounded plausible enough. “Then what will we do in the meantime?”

Snape turned to look at him and there was a smirk in his eyes and in the lines around his mouth, one that struck Ron as being a Bad Thing. “In the meantime, Mr. Weasley, I shall teach you what you need to know.”

* * *

“–rry, Harry, Harry?”

He surfaced slowly, pulling up through the thick mud that held him down. Voldemort was calling him. He had to answer. The man didn’t like it when Harry didn’t answer him. But Harry was so tired. So terribly tired. He wanted to sleep forever. The mud slicked over his head again, pulling him nearly under.

“What have you done to him?” Voldemort hissed and Harry’s mind latched on to the sound of it. He hadn’t yet heard him so angry. He sounded livid. He sounded murderous. This was the Dark Lord who had stolen his blood and been reborn. This was the man who had killed so many, killed his parents, killed his friends. This was the man who loved him.

“You’ve injured him. You had no right to injure him. He is mine.”

There was another voice, familiar, deep but halting. Afraid. Harry recognized it, but he couldn’t quite associate it with the proper memory. The voice was attached to pain, but so many voices brought pain. It hadn’t been afraid when it had spoken to him. No, it had been mocking and cruel. Laughter as sharp as the pain which lanced through his body. Voice as blunt as the fingers bruising his skin. Voldemort would heal him. Voldemort cared for him.

“Please, don’t, please, Lord… Please, Lord Volde– _No, please, don’t!_ ”

Voldemort’s voice sliced through the snivelling and Harry whimpered quietly.

_Avada Kadavra._

That smooth voice had once spoken those words to him. The sound of it made his body convulse into a tight ball of wishful denial. He heard his mother scream in the space behind his eyes and he squeezed them shut and pushed her back. She had no place here.

The body hit the ground with a heavy, wet thud, shaking the floor under Harry’s cheek. He whimpered again and pulled himself closer in around his body, feeling the now familiar wet pull of knife gashes. The chain rubbed slickly against his bare, raw skin and he dimly realised that his fingers were sticky with blood. Pain was everywhere.

“Shh,” Voldemort stroked him softly and Harry mewled and pushed himself into the touch, all but crawling into the man. “Shh, Harry. He won’t touch you again.”

Harry sobbed as his head was cradled against Voldemort’s lap, and he wished, he wished so badly that he could believe it. Voldemort had been the one to send the man in, after all, to send them all in. He didn’t like seeing Harry damaged, though, and that man had had particularly violent tastes. Others had a taste for his blood as well, but they had all had the decency to cast a healing spell over him before their Dark Lord returned to the room. The corpse on the floor hadn’t been as intelligent as that. He’d paid for that failure.

Harry listened to Voldemort’s voice again and felt the tingle of the healing spell sweep over his body. The man’s voice wrapped around him like a blanket and Harry slipped down into it, and for a while, the world was blessedly quiet and dark and numb.

Sometime later, he awoke into the now familiar darkness. He stayed still and listened for the sounds of a man he had come to know better than he had ever known anyone. Yes, there. He wasn’t alone. He would never be alone again.

He shifted on the floor, rolling up to sit cross-legged on the floor, and he turned his head toward Voldemort. He could hear birdsong. Morning. His voice was dry and his throat hurt, but he managed to ask, “Could I have some water, please?”

Voldemort was barefoot. Harry could hear the sound of his feet against the stone tiles. The man’s fingers touched his lips, a signal, and Harry opened his mouth and tipped back his chin. The water was cool and sweet, with a hint of mint. It soothed his dry throat and settled coldly in his empty stomach. He could feel the chill of it invading his body.

“Hungry?”

He nodded. “Please.”

More sweet smelling fruit. It was always fruit in the morning.

“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice was hesitant, and that was new. He raised his head and waited to know why.

“You have visitors who have asked to see you today, but I could send them away, if you need more time to recover.”

He wanted to laugh. He had never been given this choice before. Send them away? Ridiculous. And he had never been given time to recover before. When had the Dark Lord ever been worried about him? How badly had he been injured to invoke this?

“How long have I been here?” He asked instead and was truly curious to know to the answer.

Voldemort was silent for a moment. “Fifty-three days.”

Harry nodded. Nearly two months. It was summer. It would be… July? August? Had things been different, very different, he would be with the Dursleys.

No, his brain supplied from behind the fog. Not with the Dursleys. With Severus.

He pushed that back. That was all over now. There was nothing but fruit juice on Voldemort’s fingers each morning, and Voldemort’s hand stroking him to sleep every night. Everything in between those moments wasn’t real. Everything that had come before wasn’t real. Dreams and nightmares. 

“Send them in.”

Voldemort hesitated again and Harry had to bite his raw lips to hold back his laughter. Didn’t the man realise what this was? He’d won. There would always be a small, locked box hidden away in the shadows of Harry’s mind, but the rest of it? It was all Voldemort’s. Everything Harry had to give was Voldemort’s. There could be no other.

“Are you certain?”

“Very.”

Voldemort’s fingers trailed over his cheek and then away. He knew. Of course, he knew. How could he not?

“It is your choice, Harry, of course, but Lucius has had his visit with you far too recently. He is being greedy. We will give his son a chance. You know Draco, don’t you?”

Harry froze and his eyes flew open into the darkness, but Voldemort’s steps were already retreating. The door creaked on heavy hinges and Harry listened to the murmurs exchanged. The door closed again and it was only silence for a long moment before lighter steps came back to him.

“Merlin’s _balls_ , Potter…”

Harry sat up straighter. He pushed back his shoulders and tipped up his chin. He still had his self-respect, and Draco would see that, would have to, because Harry would never be so broken as to lose that. He was loved here; this is where he belonged.

Harry may not have been able to see Draco’s expression, but his tone was hushed, disbelieving. “What have they done to you?”

“What haven’t they done?” He pushed a smile onto his lips. “What’s the matter, Malfoy? First time? Don’t worry. I know how this is done. Would you rather me on my back or on my front?”

Draco sucked in a breath and the young man sat down heavily in front of Harry. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the collar with his fingertips. “How can you stand it?”

Harry shrugged and felt the comforting pull at his throat. “Voldemort prefers it when I keep up my spirits.” Harry smiled a real smile and could feel Draco shudder. “He likes it when I’m content.”

“You’re chained like a dog at his feet! How can you possibly be content? You’re Harry fucking Potter. You’ve never been content to be less than _anyone_ , and now you’re playing at… at… How could you?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder, feeling again the smooth, hard pull at his neck, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver at the feel of it. The collar was a constant reminder that he belonged to someone, someone who cared for him. Voldemort’s hand against his skin. “I’ve made my choice. This is… This makes sense. You can’t understand. I don’t have to be the Boy Who Lived. I don’t have to fight.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head down. “Some of it is… unpleasant, but that’s the price I pay.”

“For _what?_ ”

“For… for not being alone. For being loved. For being cared for.”

“Cared for?” Draco’s voice rose an octave. “Harry, I was sent in here to fuck you. No rules, no restrictions, just fuck you. Merlin, my _father_ has been in here.”

“Several times,” Harry murmured.

Draco made a noise low in his throat. “Harry, how many times have you… how many times have they done this to you?”

Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes again. “Someone comes to visit me every day, but sometimes they come in groups. I couldn’t say how many times. I… I don’t usually stay conscious the whole time, so I lose count.”

“ _Merlin, Harry._ ”

Harry had had more than enough of this. He didn’t like being pitied. He was _fine_. It hurt, it always hurt, but he welcomed it, because what he wanted was the numbness that accompanied the new healing spell, the one Voldemort insisted upon. It swept over him, through his mind, his bones, and left him so blissfully at peace. Voldemort would come to stroke his hair and tell him how good he was, how loved he was, and Harry would fall asleep in his lap, surrounded by love. He didn’t need pity.

“Get on with it already, Malfoy! Stop pretending to care. Stop pretending to be shocked.”

“I’m not going to fuck you, Harry!”

“Why the hell not?” Harry sat up on his heels and glared. “You didn’t seem reluctant that night in the dungeons with Malcolm and Eric. Don’t you want a turn too? Your cousins took theirs. They had their fun, paid me back in full for what I gave to them. Or do you think you’re too good to sully yourself on me? Is that what this is?”

Draco sucked in a deep breath and then let it out again. His hand slipped away from Harry. “Ginny told me to remind you to harness the magic.”

Harry froze.

“She told me to remind you that you can _be_ the magic. What is she talking about?”

“I…” Harry shook his head. “She told me, warned me… But I can’t. I’ve tried. I could only barely move the bloody teacup without it shattering. She doesn’t know what she’s asking. I can’t. I’d shatter into a million pieces.”

Draco’s voice turned soft. “You already have.”

“No,” he shook his head stubbornly. “No, I’ve kept myself together. That’s the whole point. They wanted something from me. I had to give it to them. I had to keep them from my mind. I’ve kept that together. Don’t you understand? I had to give them _something_.”

“You don’t deserve this, Harry. Let me help you. I can try to get you out of here. Don’t you want to go back to Hogwarts?”

“Back to…” He reeled as colours suddenly burst behind his eyes, and images flashed in his mind in a kaleidoscopic storm. He saw Ron grinning over a chessboard; Hermione knee-deep in texts; Ginny smiling from her broom; Hagrid and Norbert; Dobby’s sock collection; Seamus, Dean and Neville stumbling from bed on bleary-eyed mornings; Nearly-Headless Nick’s death-day party; Colin Creevy’s camera flash; Severus… _Severus_. His dark eyes, his small, secret smiles, the taste of his lips, the roughness of his voice, the feel of his hands… 

And then it was too late. His safe, black box was open. The lock had been snapped. There was no closing it again. Nothing in his mind was safe now. If he opened himself to Voldemort tonight, he’d have nothing left.

“Why are you saying these things? I can’t hear this…”

Draco sighed and leaned forward until his lips just brushed Harry’s ear, who froze against at the contact. “Snape makes a terrible spy for the Order. He never managed to believe his own lies. A spy needs to come just shy of believing them.”

Harry was still for a breathless moment, and then he turned his head and his own lips touched Draco’s ear. “You believe the lies?”

Draco’s mouth moved, a smile. “Just shy.”

Harry’s eyes were open into darkness, seeing the angry, bullying boy he had known, seeing the young man in the dark hallway, the flicker of apology in his eyes. “How long?”

A puff of amused breath against Harry’s cheek. “I’m the best actor you’ll ever meet, Potter.”


	9. Chapter 9

Ron slammed his palm down flat against the table, startling the spattering of people in the common room of the inn. He let out a loud burst of irritation as he glared down at the seated man. “Snape! Would you just bloody well stop?”

“Stop what?” Snape shot back, glaring at him across the tabletop. He dipped his quill in the inkpot again and jumped as Ron snatched it from between his fingers.

“This is my quill. And that is my ink! And that is my parchment! What do you think you’re doing, stealing my things?”

Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. He sat back in the creaking wooden chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re being unreasonable, Mr. Weasley.”

“I am not!” Ron sputtered and glared at him, his cheeks and ears flushing red. “Just stop, alright?”

“Stop _what?_ ” Snape asked again, his voice rising sharply.

“Stop… being you!”

Snape sat back and rolled his eyes again. The patrons across the room were tactfully ignoring them, as usual, save for the one inebriated old man by the bar who watched them every evening with an interest generally reserved for sporting matches.

“Then can I ask the same of you, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron huffed and sat down across the table from him. “You can ask, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

Snape smiled thinly and sat forward again, resting his elbows on the table. “Then I certainly don’t intend to ‘do it’, either.”

They glared at each other for a moment and then Ron handed back the quill. Snape took it without comment and began writing again. Ron sat down in the seat opposite Snape and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at the old man who grinned and saluted him sloppily with his tankard. 

The old man had proven an interesting source of information, although perhaps less than useful than ideal. While he was a squib, his parents and siblings had been full wizards and witches, and he was old enough to remember Voldemort’s first rise to power and the subsequent fallout. His sister had died in the war. The town had been half-burnt and rebuilt on the ashes, and now things were beginning again. He was thrilled someone, anyone, had finally arrived to put things to right in the area.

He had sent them out on several hunts to local properties, although few were particularly fruitful. In one case, they had found two Death Eater supporters living in a small house outside of the village. Snape had been immediately recognized and the pair had attacked, but it hadn’t been much to subdue them. They’d discovered the trove of supplies hidden in the floorboards: dark potions and texts, anti-muggle propaganda, and a single Death Eater mask. It was enough to incriminate them. The worst of it, Ron found, had been waiting for the Aurors to finally appear to arrest the two supporters.

Later, they had found what Snape claimed was a former Death Eater safehouse, long since abandoned. The hearth had been full of charred parchment, and the coal room in the cellar scattered with the small bones of hundreds of birds and rodents. Food for the snake, Snape claimed, and Ron was at least glad the thing wasn’t fed babies. When Ron said as much, Snape’s mouth thinned in a tight line and he’d looked away, and Ron didn’t ask any more questions.

While their days were full of country jaunts and creepy bone-filled rooms, their evenings were a little too close for comfort, stuck together in the small room. Snape spent most of his time writing endless letters, and when not doing that, he attempted to teach Ron Occlumency. Legilimency was well beyond him, it seemed, and good riddance too. He had no desire to go tramping about in anyone’s mind, least of all Snape’s. Battering up against the man’s mind every evening was exhausting, but he had certainly learned more of protecting his mind than he had ever before. He’d learned defence spells and useful hexes and plenty of things no professor had ever bothered to teach him before. 

It was surprising and unexpected. Who knew he could actually learn something useful from Snape.

He looked back at the man and watched him for several minutes before he finally asked, “What are you writing, then?”

Snape glanced up and then down again. “A letter.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “To who?”

 

“Whom.”

Ron let out another grating sound. “Dammit, Snape, would you just stop being an insufferably pompous git already?”

Snape’s lips quirked, though he didn’t raise his head from his writing. “I am writing a letter to Harry, if you must know. Though if you ask what it is I am writing, I will demonstrate a little known hex which I’ve no doubt you’ll find vastly interesting.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, I’d like to see you try.” He grinned as Snape looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, and Ron chuckled. “I have your wand, you greasy git. Remember?”

The man’s lips turned up into a true lazy smile and he blinked like a cat in the sun. “I have met your sister, Mr. Weasley, and so I can only assume that your inherent witlessness is not hereditary, though your brothers certainly make me wonder.”

“Hey!” He paused and then frowned, “…I think.”

Snape rolled his eyes again and put down the quill. “Shall I take you through this slowly? I was teaching Harry to control magic without the use of a wand. I have considered trying to teach the same to you, though I’m unsure if the lessons could penetrate your skull. Our lessons thus far have left me doubtful on that note.” He lifted one dark eyebrow. “One generally doesn’t teach a skill which one does not already possess.”

Ron coloured but sniffed and sat back nonchalantly. “Lockhart did it.”

“Oh, spare me. That man was an insufferable git.”

Ron grinned. “You just called him a git, you git.”

“Would you like to spend the rest of this excursion as a toad?”

Ron opened his mouth to send back his retort but the older waitress appeared by his elbow and interrupted him.

“Can I get you boys anythin’ else?” She had a chaotic bramble of grey-blonde hair piled on her head, three visible pencils sticking out from the mess. She reached up and took one and put the point to her pad of paper, raising her eyebrows as she waited.

They looked up at her and Ron grinned. “Firewhiskey?”

Snape cleared his throat. “Butterbeer,” he corrected with a pointed look before going back to his letter. “For him. I will have a firewhiskey.”

The woman smiled and winked at Ron conspiratorially. She pulled a set of dark-rimmed glasses from her hair and set them on the end of her nose, smiling at him through them. “Your pa’s a regular riot, ain’t he?”

Ron’s mouth dropped open and he looked from her to Snape in shock and a touch of horror. “My father? Him? No!”

“Oh,” she glanced between them again, her eyes flickering behind her thick-rimmed glasses, her tongue between her teeth. “Uncle?”

“He’s my pupil,” Snape said, eyes still on his letter, through Ron could see the amusement in his severe features. “I can only count my blessings that I never contributed to the creation of that.”

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed. “You’re no prize either, you know.”

The woman’s smile froze along its edges, a tiny crease above her nose. She backed up a step. “Well, that’s just lovely, then, ain’t it? I’ll just be getting those drinks, then.” She dashed off, leaving a scatter of pencils behind her.

Ron glared at her and then across the table. “Like we look anything alike, thank Merlin.”

“Yes,” Snape murmured. “Thank Merlin, indeed.”

Ron narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything. The waitress was talking to the old man at the bar, and Ron sighed and turned so he looked at the whitewashed wall. There was a picture of a large, red-faced man in a kilt, tossing a very hefty-looking log. The log flew some distance and the man turned to Ron and winked. Ron frowned and then look back at Snape. He looked at the long line of his nose, the pallor of his skin, the lank curtain of midnight black hair. He imagined his professor as a Weasley, the red hair, the freckles, the maroon sweater with a lopsided S, and he grinned despite himself.

“Yeah,” Ron chuckled, fighting back a laugh. “You’d look silly with red hair.”

Snape lifted his head, eyes glittering. “You’d look ridiculous with my nose.”

Ron laughed outright and laughed harder as Snape put his knuckles to his mouth, sharply holding back what must be his own laughter. Their eyes held and shared their amusement for a moment, and then, simultaneously, they frowned and looked away. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long while, as Snape’s quill went back to scratching over the paper and Ron watched him. Finally, he asked, softly, “Do you think we’ll find him?”

The quill paused on the paper, and Snape looked up. “No.”

Ron nodded and swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah, me neither.”

* * *

Draco didn’t look back as he walked from the room. He knew he had left Harry in a tangled, sated sleep, thanks to a charm he’d learned from his mother – a charm well-known and well-used by the dissatisfied wives of the upper echelon of wizardom. He had carefully and deliberately arranged his clothing: one button off on his shirt, his tie loose, his robes open and twisted. His father turned in the hallway as he stepped from the room and closed the heavy door behind him. Lucius looked him over with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, and Draco smirked back, rearranging his robe into a semblance of order, slicking back his sweat-lined hair.

“Well?” Lucius asked, his body radiating with contained eagerness, his long, elegant fingers twitching against his thighs.

Draco grinned, showing a line of white, perfect teeth, and then feigned disinterest, shrugging and sniffing. “I’m famished. Shall we go?”

His father laughed and clapped him over the shoulder, leading him away from the large, imposing door. The hallway was long and brightly lit, sunlight casting bright, cheerful light across the pale wood walls, tinting them blue and red from the coloured panes of glass. They arrived in the main hall and two servants in dark robes opened the front doors for them, while a third handed them their outer robes and wands. They stepped out into the warm midday sun and the light poured down over their pale faces. 

Draco spared a glance over the rambling chaos of the front gardens, amused by their Englishness. Robins and bluebirds flitted about, calling each other in musical tones, chasing each other from stone walls to mossy tree, and he half-expected to see a young trio of Victorian children, laughing about their secret garden.

It was a change from Voldemort’s last headquarters, a damp, decrepit house on the outskirts of a dark, unsuspecting town. But that had been before. No one, none of the Death Eaters, knew quite what to make of the change in their Dark Lord, but sometime ago, the man had gone from a waxy-skinned, bitterly frail old man to a young, hale man with a sharp smile and razor-blade amusement. Draco’s father told him that it was how Voldemort had been in the beginning, in the very beginning, when it had all been new and exciting, when most of the Death Eaters still remembered the boy named Tom Riddle, but no one mentioned him. It was when the Death Eaters loved their Dark Lord willingly, rather than fearfully.

Even Voldemort had been young once, and it seemed he had chosen to be young again.

It came at a price, of course. Voldemort had found a way to siphon off a person’s youth through their blood. It was a dark, dark magic, ancient and buried, but Voldemort had revived it, and through it, revived himself. Muggle blood did not have the potency that wizard blood had, they had determined that through trial and error, but Draco knew that some Death Eaters on tenuous ground with their master had ‘volunteered’ their own young children and this had proven more than successful. 

In theory, Voldemort might live forever, should he chose.

While the blood magic sustaining him was dark and ancient, the new quaint manor he had adopted was certainly not. It had been painted a lively yellow with crisp white trim, and was surrounded by English gardens and fluttering bluebirds, and the whole of it confused the Death Eaters, through it amused Draco to no end. He wished he had Creevy’s camera, because he doubted anyone who had not seen it would believe it.

He glanced at his father and hid a smirk as he saw the disgust in Lucius’ eyes as a pair of lovebirds circled each other across their path.

“What does the Dark Lord plan for Potter? In the end, I mean.”

Lucius shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt anyone but the man himself knows.”

“He doesn’t still need Potter’s blood, does he?”

“Hardly. You saw him. He’s fitter than I am.”

Draco nodded. “He looks like a twenty-year old. He looks like he could hop aboard a broomstick and play a round or three of Quidditch and not tire himself out.”

Lucius rolled his eyes, but nodded back. “My guess? He’s keeping the boy for personal reasons.”

“But…” Draco frowned and glanced at his father. “He hasn’t touched him, not that way, has he?”

Lucius grinned at him. “He hasn’t buggered him, you mean. Well, no. Rumour is, he hasn’t, though the rest of us surely have.” Lucius laughed darkly and Draco had to look away. “No, when I say personal reasons, son, I mean I think he cares for the boy.”

Draco’s head snapped around to stare and his mind flipped busily into work. The prophecy, Dumbledore’s idiotic, revolting prophecy… It was happening? 

“He loves Potter?” He put a note of disgust in with his incredulity. “My god, why?”

His father shrugged again, but chuckled. “Amusement? Boredom? But why sound so shocked, Draco? Is it so hard to think anyone might love that pretty boy in there? Goodness, if Voldemort hadn’t tagged the Potter boy since the beginning, I would have liked to keep him for myself.”

Draco swallowed the taste of bile in his throat and made a tsk sound. “Father, he was my classmate. Shame. What would mother say?”

Lucius smiled sharply and replied, “She wouldn’t. As always.” A robin flitted too close to him and he swore, turning to swat at it. Draco sucked in a breath and looked away. He swallowed hard and plastered his smile back over his lips, and he was as icily smooth as always by the time his father had incinerated the small bird and turned back.

They reached the end of the long front path and stood a ways from the wrought iron gates, finally outside the warded circle around Voldemort’s Summer House, as it had come to be called.

Lucius looked down at him with slitted eyes. “Will you return to Hogwarts now?”

“Do you wish me to?” Draco asked carefully, neutrally.

“Dumbledore is planning something, you said. I’d rather have someone I trust to watch over him.”

Nodding, Draco agreed. “They will be curious to know where I have been.”

Lucius scoffed. “They need to know nothing more than that you’re a Malfoy. Insanity, expecting one of us to be answerable to the likes of Hogwarts professors.” He shook his head, gazing off over the garden, and then he looked back at his son, his eyes dark with a warning. “Watch Severus carefully. Few of us trust him anymore. He’s… Things are not as they were. The Dark Lord might say one thing about him, but… Keep an eye on him. I want to know what he’s about.”

Draco nodded again. “Of course, Father. I will.”

Lucius smiled and patted his shoulder again. “I know you will, Draco. I have faith in you. The others will see your worth too, one day. You will show them all.”

“Yes,” Draco answered and looked at the cheerful house surrounded by its cheerful gardens. “I will.”

* * *

“Hermione?” Ginny stepped through the entrance to the Gryffindor common room and cast her eyes around the empty space. She released a long sigh and was about to step from the room again when she caught sight of movement from the corner of her eye. She narrowed her eyes and saw it again. A cloud of frazzled brown hair moved in the slight current of air in the room, visible along the edge of a burgundy chair, which sat with its back to the entrance to the room. 

Ginny stepped back into the room and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut behind her.

“Hermione?” She called again, but when she received no response, Ginny huffed in irritation, frustrated with Hermione’s continued strangeness. Her friend had been in a plunging spiral of despondency and hopelessness in the months since Harry had been taken, and certainly, Ron and the way he had left things with Hermione before he’d gone hadn’t helped.

Ginny wanted to shake her friend. Yes, Ron was gone. Yes, Harry was gone. But the rest of them were managing. Why on earth couldn’t Hermione do the same? 

She strode across the room, circling around the chair, a sharp retort on her tongue, but before the words could pass across her lips, they died. 

Curled up, her knees against her chest, a blanket around her back, sat Hermione, staring ahead blankly. Her face was unnaturally pale. Her eyes stared ahead at the flickering fire, but her pupils were wide, her eyes nearly entirely black.

Ginny froze for a moment and her heart leapt painfully in her chest. She bent closer and saw the faint stirring of hair around Hermione’s face, saw the slight rise and fall of her friend’s chest. She was breathing, at least. Ginny put her hand out and touched her friend’s shoulder, and a bolt of sharp electricity shook up her arm, spiralling down her spine, slithering around her legs and into the floor.

She jumped back, rubbing her arm as the tingles of it raced through her nerves. The carpet smoked where she had stood, the plush burned with two blackened footprints. Hermione hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. There was no reaction at all.

Ginny felt an icy shiver run up her spine and deliberately she opened herself to track Hermione’s paths, to find her energy, but when she did, all she found was an absence. Not darkness, but a steady emptiness. Hermione had no future ahead of her. She walked no paths. As far as Ginny could see, Hermione simply wasn’t. 

“Bloody hell, Hermione.” Her voice shook. “What have you done to yourself?”

The room was empty, so painfully empty, and she put a hand to her stomach, feeling it turn over in a rare panic. She was stronger than this, stronger than panic. She could handle this. Ginny looked down at Hermione again, into those blank, staring eyes, and her stomach roiled over again. She needed… help.

“Dobby,” she called softly, and immediately, the house-elf appeared.

He smiled widely at her and said, “What can Dobby do for Ginny Weasley today?”

Ginny motioned to Hermione with a trembling hand, and the house-elf turned to look and froze still. His large eyes widened. He tilted his head and looked back at Ginny and said in a strange voice, “Hermione Granger has gone and has left behind her body.”

Ginny swallowed thickly and said, “Dobby, can you please find Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey and ask them both to come here? I need their help.”

“Of course,” Dobby bowed low, but he glanced back at Hermione and tugged on one ear as he said, “Dobby has never forgotten his body before. Hermione Granger will be missing it soon, Dobby thinks.”

He disappeared with a pop, and Ginny sat down where she stood to wait.

* * *

Ron snorted, turned over, and fell off the narrow bed. He hit the floor with a building-shaking thud, and Snape watched as the young man groaned and emerged from his tangled cocoon of blankets.

“Perhaps you need a guardrail, such as they use for young children. I don’t believe they make bassinets for people of your size.”

“Funny, funny man, you are, Professor.” Ron pushed at the sucking mass of blankets, kicking the tangle from his right leg and growling as it refused to let go. Finally, he subdued the blankets and tossed the whole, bundled ball of them back onto the bed. His pants were a twist about his hips and his t-shirt was halfway under his left armpit, but he scratched his chest and righted them as he crossed the room, heading for their shared toilet. Once upon a time, he’d have been embarrassed to be half-naked, sleepy, and always slightly disoriented around Snape, but that time had passed. Now, he flipped him a non-verbal hand gesture as he passed by and then closed the washroom door behind him.

He stared at himself in the mirror over the sink as he washed his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. His face was pale, making his hair look like a Muggle traffic cone had melted over his head. The patchy red scruff over his chin and cheeks looked more like an unpleasant skin condition than facial hair.

“At least your hair isn’t greasy,” he told his reflection.

“Don’t be too sure, mate,” the mirror replied in a thick burl. “Yeh look… Well, be glad yeh’ve got yerself a good personality, a’least.”

“Thanks,” Ron muttered and splashed his face with icy water. It made his teeth clench and grind together, but at least he was mostly awake now. A quick cleaning spell and an even quicker shave later, he emerged from the washroom and sat down, his chin in his hands, and sniffed as he looked at Snape. 

The man looked like a walking corpse. An amused walking corpse, but a corpse nonetheless. His skin was chalky, his dark eyes and hair strengthening the contrast to the point where he looked like a photo-negative of a person, colours too severe and contrasting to be true. Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks. The pair of them must make quite an impression. He wondered what the innkeepers thought of them. One shadow creature and one deranged traffic cone.

Ron snorted to himself at the image and then closed his eyes as the pain behind his eyes throbbed.

“You should eat something,” Snape told him and Ron heard as a wooden bowl was pushed across the table toward him. He cracked his eyes open and saw two green apples and a couple fresh muffins. Blueberry, his nose told him, but his stomach turned over once, then twice, and he shook his head and pushed the bowl back.

“You’re not looking well,” Snape commented dryly and Ron glared at him through slitted eyes.

“Pot, kettle, black.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we should have included basic English grammar as a supplementary class. You seem to have your difficulties with the simplest of sentences.”

Ron opened his eyes and glared harder. “You look like crap, Snape, all pasty pale and sick. Practically see-through, like a ghost, but I’ve seen better looking ghosts. In fact, if Nearly-Headless Nick was here, and I had to choose between the two of you, I’d pick _him._ ” His forehead bunched in a deep furrowed frown and he looked away. “What the hell are we doing here? We’re going to fucking kill each other before we find him.”

Snape sighed and rubbed his temple. “We aren’t going to find him. That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?” Ron snapped, unable to stop himself. “Huh? What are we doing here? Anything? Pissing around, doing nothing? What’s the point, Snape? Exactly what is the point?”

“The point was to get you out of Hogwarts, to keep you from killing one of your friends with your bare hands, to give you something to do. I have tried to teach you. I have tried to take you out into the world. I have _tried._ ” Snape glared at him balefully, dark eyes filled with anger and frustration. “I should have just locked you in a closet and left you there, you little…”

“You little _what?_ What? What am I, Snape, you greasy bastard? Hm?”

Snape stood, pushing back his chair noisily and Ron followed, his own chair flying backward to hit the ground with a sharp snap. The table was all that stood between them, and Ron, despite his anger, was well aware that his wand was across the room, resting on the bedside table. Snape’s sleeves were rolled up and Ron could plainly see the Dark Mark against the man’s pale forearm. He flicked his eyes from the Mark to his wand and back.

Snape recoiled as if slapped and took a stumbling step backwards.

Ron stood still and felt his anger drop away as he stepped around the table and asked, “What? What’s wrong?”

The man closed his eyes and shook his head, but Ron wasn’t about to let him get away with anything. “No, you tell me. What’s wrong?”

Snape opened his eyes narrowly and said sharply. “I am not a danger to you.”

“Reading my mind, Snape?”

Snape turned away and crossed his arms over his chest.

Ron looked away. He brushed a hand over his face and sighed. “Look, I know. I don’t think… I mean, I know you’re not a Death Eater. Okay? Not anymore. But you were, it’s right there, plain as day, and… Well, that’s hard to overlook. Even with, you know, everything else.”

Snape’s shoulders slumped but he turned back again, his eyes guarded. He unrolled his sleeves, unfolding them down to hide his forearms, and said, “Understandable.”

Ron sighed and scratched his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think you’re a greasy bastard, by the way.”

“Oh?” Snape’s lips turned up for a moment, but only a moment.

“No. I think you’re a greasy git. There’s a difference.”

“Of course.”

Ron looked at him and smiled, a flick of his lips before it was gone too. He looked away again, toward the table, where Snape had a collection of rolled scrolls, each a letter to Harry. He wrote every day. Even though he knew they weren’t going to find him. There was another, loosely curled about a quill, and Ron could only guess what it held.

He sat again and waited for Snape to do the same. When he finally did, Ron looked at him. “Do you have more paper?”

Snape gazed at him for a moment and then passed him a long roll of it and another quill, long and thin, a pale yellow feather striped with brown.

Ron dipped the quill into the ink and began writing.

_Happy Birthday, Harry…_


	10. Chapter 10

“Hello Hermione.”

She turned slowly, as though moving through water, the very air pushing her back, pulling her apart, trying to hold her still. Her head felt two sizes too big, heavy and slow. Her eyes took too long to focus; the world too bright. He was tall, thin, dark haired and familiar, but her vision blurred, the world wouldn’t right itself. He blended in with the background.

“Harry?”

The man laughed quietly. “No, no. Not hardly. Hermione, just look at me. Just at me.”

She blinked and felt a pinch behind her eyes as she trained her eyes on the dark figure. While the world around her stayed blurred and unreal, the man came into focus and she caught her breath, biting hard on her lip. “Sirius? What… where…”

“Who, what, where, when, why?” He replied and gave her a quiet smile. He had his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders lightly. “I can’t answer you, Hermione. I’ve been asking those same questions myself. At least, I think I have.”

She blinked at him again and tried to look around herself. The shifting landscape of indeterminate colours and angles made her head hurt. She looked back at Sirius. He was solid, focused, or more so than the rest. His edges kept blurring, and his face was slightly off in a way she didn’t immediately understand. 

“Where am I? What happened?”

He shook his head, still smiling, bemused. “Don’t know. I don’t even know where I am, so I haven’t the slightest idea where _you_ are. I’m not even sure I know who you are, though I know your name, and I know you’re Harry’s friend. I know you’re loyal and bloody stubborn, and I think that you’re a good friend for Harry. I know you rescued me from the tower. I know you’ve read Hogwarts: A History more times than anyone’s ever wanted to, but…” He shrugged again and looked around, his shoulders hunched toward his ears, his chin ducked down. “But I don’t know why I know all that. I don’t even know who Harry is, except I do. James and Lily’s son. But that doesn’t make sense. Lily hasn’t been pregnant. Not yet.”

She stared at him. Sirius didn’t look quite right, but she couldn’t think of a reason why. There was something off. “I don’t understand.”

He sat down on the edge of a shifting form that resembled a chair for a moment, then a rock, then a table. “The last thing I remember is saying goodbye to Moony at the London station after seventh year. I was going to see him in a few weeks, go to a concert or something, we hadn’t decided yet. He was wearing a red shirt,” he smiled suddenly and it brightened his face completely, a winter sunrise from Hogwarts’ tower. “No, he was wearing _my_ red shirt, because he’d spilled chocolate down his own when Peter…” 

He cut himself off and frowned. “Peter.” He shook his head and looked at her curiously. “Why am I angry at Peter? What did he do?”

Hermione’s head felt stuffed with cotton, her mind as indeterminate as the surrounding area. “He betrayed Harry’s parents. Let Voldemort kill them.”

“He _did?_ ” Sirius’ eyes widened and then he sighed and sank back into his seat. “Oh yes, that’s right. He did. I keep forgetting. I went to Azkaban. I think… I can’t remember? A good thing, in the long run, I’d say.” He looked back up at her, his face young and innocent, unlined, naively curious. “Did I get out of Azkaban? Am I still there?”

“No, you escaped. But…” She looked at him and stopped looking for the man she knew, because this Sirius was not the same man. The strangeness about him suddenly made sense as she stopped trying to correct him and really looked at him. He was younger, much younger. His hair longer, smoother, tied back from his face low on his neck. His skin wasn’t as pale as she remembered, and his face wasn’t as thin. His eyes were brighter, free of the shadowed haunting she’d come to associate with him. “But you… You’re dead, I think. You fell through the Veil. I don’t… I don’t understand…”

“Oh, right,” he nodded, as if she had reminded him of a forgotten shopping list. “Right, right. I think I remember that. Bellatrix, crazy bitch, hit me with… with… Oh, bollocks. Avada kedavra. I don’t think many people survive that. Except Harry, of course. I think, wait, yes. He survived. Didn’t he? Hmmm… So I’m dead? Odd.” He sat back and propped up his feet on a table. At least, Hermione thought it might be a table. “Well, it could be worse, I suppose. It’s nice to have some company. It’s been rather dull.” He frowned, “At least, I think it has. I’m not too sure, exactly.”

She sat down. On what, she couldn’t say. “My head… hurts.”

He nodded. “Oh yes, it’ll do that, if you think too much. It helps if you don’t. Or,” he frowned and then rephrased with a shrug and a smile. “More, it helps if you don’t try to understand it.” He smiled wider and slid sideways in his chair, dangling his denim-clad legs over the arm, tapping the heels of his heavy black boots against the chair. “So, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Hermione settled back into her own seat, crossing her legs under her. She thought for a moment. “Harry was captured. Ron left. I don’t remember much after that, bits and pieces. I think I might have lost my head.”

Sirius laughed and slid a hand through his hair without thought, snapping it from its ties. His hands went back to re-secure it even as he replied, “Yeah, that can happen. I think that’s what this place might be. Where lost things go. Your mind, my… well, my entire existence, I suppose. I wonder what else is here,” he said, glancing around.

“Are we trapped here?”

He looked back at her in surprise. “No, no. I don’t think so. I think we just have to be found. Though,” he made a face. “If I’m dead, they probably aren’t looking for me. They’ll find you though. Unless you’re dead too. Do you think you might be dead?”

A heavy pit of dread fell into her stomach. “I hope not. My parents will be upset.”

He laughed again. “Yeah. My parents won’t be. They never really… Oh.” He stopped and frowned. “I guess they’re probably both dead now.” He paused and his eyes unfocused, looking away into the changing landscape. “Huh.”

“You didn’t like your family, though. You were always saying so. You were happy they were dead. And it was pretty clear you didn’t like Kreacher. You kept trying to kill him.” She didn’t quite manage to keep the disapproval from her tone.

Sirius grinned suddenly and shook his head, rubbing his forehead. “What a little bastard of a house-elf that one is.” He chuckled to himself. “No, I didn’t like my family much. They didn’t like me either. It made things easy. But still, they’re dead. I haven’t really thought about that. But I suppose I’m dead too, so…”

“Sirius, you’re not making much sense.”

He shrugged lightly. “It happens.”

Hermione sat up again, her hands gripping into the arms of the chair. Or whatever it was. “I can’t stay here. Harry is missing. I need to find him. Save him.”

“Missing, eh? Well, that’s convenient. This would probably be the best place to start looking. This is where missing things end up, I think.” He stood and brushed off his jeans, and then held out a hand to her. “Come on. He must be around here somewhere.”

She hesitated, uncertainty churning in her belly, but she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. He smiled at her, young and free, in a way she hadn’t seen in anyone in a very long time. So innocent. So untouched. She smiled back at him and looked around.

“Yes, somewhere around here. Maybe.”

* * *

Something wasn’t right. Draco knew it the moment he stepped out of the passage from Hogsmead. The castle was quiet and still, almost breathless. Even empty, Hogwarts had a vibrant energy, a life all of its own and this was a completely different atmosphere. He thought, for a moment, that perhaps someone had learned something of Harry independently, but no, that wasn’t possible. No one knew where Harry was, not even the Order, not even Dumbledore’s little prophecy circle. Only he had that information.

No, this was something new. Something different. It piqued his interest.

He wished he had the Sight, as Ginny Weasley did. She had appeared by his side at the very moment it had mattered most, led to a place she had never been by what she had explained as “voices” and a “strong feeling”. He had no desire to rely on something as ephemeral as a “strong feeling”, but he could certainly use the additional information provided. He could tell that something was off, but he had no idea how to find what it might be. Hogwarts was not a small place.

Of course, taking into account every other strange event since he’d arrived at Hogwarts, it was a safe bet that this one involved a Gryffindor, so he turned his feet toward the staircase leading him up toward their tower. His suspicions were confirmed when he met Neville waiting for him on the landing, sitting on an empty statue ledge, fingers twisting into his school robe.

Neville stood as Draco slowed to a stop and said, “I felt you cross the wards.”

Dumbledore, when the old man had approached them in Year 3 with the decidedly non-optional invitation into his little prophecy club, had connected them to the school’s wards and had connected them to one another. They could now feel when the other crossed the wards. Likely Dumbledore could also feel when they crossed the wards – Draco wouldn’t put it past the manipulative coot. It wasn’t enough to have recruited children into a group supporting the emotional decimation of their schoolmate, no. One must also control their comings and goings.

“Did you…” Neville trailed off and hesitated.

“Find your lost saviour? Confirm his psychological allegiance to a monster? Take advantage of the offer to bugger him senseless and/or torture him through whatever means I deemed desirable?” Neville flinched at his words, and Draco replied, “Yes, yes, and most certainly no. Although I’m certain my father will be disappointed should he learn we do not actually have an unwilling cocksheath in common.”

“Draco!”

“Exactly which part of this has offended you, Longbottom? The language? The truth? Or our own part in this atrocity?” His lips curled and he swallowed around a heavy taste of bile in his throat.

Neville’s eyes narrowed at him and he took a step forward, his hands held in tight fists against his sides. “You know I don’t support any of this, any more than you do, any more than Hagrid does. Harry is my _friend_. I didn’t want any of this to happen to him.”

They were going to save the world, Dumbledore had told them. They were thirteen, there was a murderer on the loose, and neither of them had felt like they had much control over their lives. Dumbledore offered them a chance to be something more. To be part of something important, he had told them. To save the world.

Draco hadn’t given much of a fuck about saving the world, but Harry Potter was supposed to save the world, and Draco didn’t want someone who had rebuffed his friendship and then taken every opportunity to ridicule him to get all the power. 

Neville had wanted to save the world, of course. Gryffindors.

Regardless, the news that Harry was to be captured, tortured, and subverted into loving the man who had single-handedly destroyed the respect Slytherin House deserved, that this was the purpose Dumbledore had set for them, this news came later, years later. Later enough that Dumbledore had had them do enough in the name of “saving the world” to ensure that the two teenagers were completely under the old man’s thumb.

Draco had been raised into a life of devious machinations, but Dumbledore put them all to shame. 

“I know,” Draco sighed and Neville’s tense posture shifted hesitantly. “I know. But you didn’t see him, Neville. You didn’t have to leave him there.”

He drew back against the wall as the sound of footsteps rounded the curve of the stairs, and he tensed as the old man himself appeared. He wore a pink robe and a striped pink hat and he smiled widely at the two of them. 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy. And Mr. Longbottom. How fortuitous. Would you both come with me? It would seem that Hermione Granger has found herself in a state.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure what that had to do with him, but it likely had to do with the odd, breathless feeling in the air, so he exchanged a glance with Neville as they trailed after the Headmaster.

The portrait hanging on the wall was an unpleasant sort of woman, rather crude. Too much make-up, clothes too tight for her ample body, a overlarge tray of food hiding half behind her elbow. She simpered at the Headmaster and waved a feathered Victorian fan about herself as she swung open and allowed them into the Gryffindor common room.

It was a warm room, done in red, plush furniture, with a large fireplace and none of the gravitas of the Slytherin common room. Draco supposed the room was likely perfect for people who placed no value on a good impression.

“Ah, Minerva. What have we here?”

McGonagall had the same sour expression her pinched face typically bore, and it didn’t improve as she took in his presence, but she ignored him completely. Instead, she shook her head and gestured to a tall wingback chair by the fireplace, where Madam Pomfrey crouched, blocking view of whoever, supposedly Granger, was in the chair. Beside her sat Ginny, and she looked up at the sound of Dumbledore’s voice, an expression as sour as McGonagall’s on her face, but it dropped as she met Draco’s eyes.

“Ms. Granger is… I can’t say for sure, Albus. It’s very strange.” McGonagall shook her head.

Pomfrey stood, brushing her hands off against her robes, and she similarly shook her head, as if what she hid behind her defied all explanation. “I can’t get a signature from her,” the mediwitch said. “Her body lives, she breathes, but there is a magical barrier blocking us from her and her from us. I have never seen the like.”

Draco rounded them to get a better look at this mystery. Hermione lay in the chair, knees pulled to her chest, with a strange, blank look in her eyes. The air about her crackled with the same odd energy he had detected earlier.

“Draco,” Ginny whispered and he looked down at her. To her right were two burnt footprints in the carpet, obviously new. “Something’s so wrong with Hermione.”

Clearly, he didn’t say. Instead, he asked, “What happened?”

“I found her this way,” she said in a small voice, so unlike herself. “I touched her arm and she gave off sparks, electricity. It… it burnt the carpet.”

Draco frowned, “Did they damage you?”

“The sparks? No. It hurt, but mostly it surprised me.”

“Has anyone else tried?”

“To touch her?” Pomfrey asked and Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, Gryffindors were the worst.

“No, to dance the tango. Of course to touch her.” Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at him and he rolled his eyes again, he couldn’t help it. “Well, someone ought to try.”

They stared at him, mouths parting in unspoken words, and he sighed again. “Fine,” and before anyone could react, he reached out and put a hand to Hermione’s shoulder.

Dimly, he heard the outburst of cries, but he was more concerned with the liquid fire running up his veins, shivering across his every nerve ending. He wrenched himself away and rubbed his arm.

“Ow,” he said and Ginny glared at him as she got to her feet.

“That was stupid.”

He glared back at her, with more heat than he’d intended as his nerves were still dancing under his skin, setting his teeth on edge. “Maybe, but it needed to be done if we’re going to understand what’s happened to her.”

Madam Pomfrey looked at him in surprise, “You know what’s happened to her?”

He shot her a pointed look and scoffed at her, fool woman. “Of course not. How could I?”

The woman deflated and Draco shook his head and looked back at Ginny who was glaring again.

“What?”

“Getting electrocuted because of your own stubborn stupidity doesn’t give you a licence to be rude.”

His eyes widened incredulously, but she just looked at him, a hand on her hip and waited. Draco sighed and looked back at Madam Pomfrey, and said tightly, “My apologies, Madam.”

The woman nodded, a hint of amusement lurking behind her eyes, and he looked back at Ginny, raising one eyebrow. She gave him a hard, no-nonsense smile and crossed her arms over her chest. He stifled another sigh and looked back at Dumbledore.

“There is nothing I can do for Granger, but I do have something I need to discuss with you.” He glanced at Neville as well, and felt Ginny stir beside him.

Dumbledore nodded and pulled a pink striped bag from a pocket. It matched his hat perfectly. “Poppy, Minerva, if you could both take Ms. Granger to the infirmary? I will join you shortly.”

“Of course,” the mediwitch replied with a curious glance at Draco, who pointed ignored her. 

“Albus,” McGonagall began, but Dumbledore shook his head at her, setting his hat off kilter on his head.

“Later, dear girl. Please see to Ms. Granger. We may need to contact her parents should this strange state continue.”

McGonagall stared at him for a long moment before her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “Very well.”

None of them spoke again until the two women disappeared through the entrance, the hovering Hermione trailing behind them. Dumbledore sat in the chair previously occupied by Hermione and absently reached into the striped bag with two fingers and ate the resulting lemon sherbet.

“Please continue, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco glanced around again, uncomfortable to be so open in the midst of the Gryffindor common room, but it seemed he had little choice.

“Harry is being held as Voldemort’s special guest. He is…” He paused and glanced at Ginny, meeting her eyes for a moment before lowering his own. “He is chained and blinded, and he wears only a robe for convenience’s sake. He–”

“Convenience for what?” Ginny asked softly and he swallowed, glancing back at her. She looked into his eyes and paled. Neville jumped to take her arm as she wavered on her feet, but she shook his off and put a hand to her mouth, shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Oh, gods.”

He looked away and returned to Dumbledore, picking up his account again. “His spirits are quite… low. He didn’t believe in rescue. He had, for the most part, purposefully forgotten his life before his capture. His every thought is of Voldemort. He… Harry still knows quite well who and what Voldemort is, but he is devoted.”

Dumbledore smiled widely. “Wonderful. Wonderful.”

Draco swallowed, his lip curling, and he looked away, back to Ginny. She was staring at Dumbledore in horror. Her skin was porcelain pale, the freckles across her nose standing out darkly against her skin.

“I told him what you asked me to, Ginny. He’s going to try, but he doesn’t know if he can without tearing himself to pieces.”

She dropped her hand from her mouth as she turned her gaze back on him and shook her head wildly, as if her thoughts couldn’t quite be contained. “I can’t see… I don’t know… He’s too far for me to see, too tangled.”

Draco felt a heavy pit in his stomach. “I’m not sure if I hurt him more than helped him. I reminded him of who he was, but he didn’t want to be saved. He was happy where he was, content was the word he used. He said that Voldemort let him just be Harry, that he didn’t have to be the Boy Who Lived, or a hero. He didn’t have to fight.” Draco turned his eyes back on Dumbledore, but the man only looked satisfied.

“It is progressing well. That’s good.”

“How dare you?” Ginny cried. “How can you just sit there and hear this, and know what’s happening to Harry, and be pleased?” She was a rearing dragon, all fire and passion as she confronted Dumbledore. “He thinks this, all of this, rape, abuse, is what he deserves, thinks it’s the price he has to pay to be loved. That’s disgusting! And you’re letting it happen! How could you?”

Dumbledore gazed back at her from beneath his shaggy eyebrows and the line of hair emerging from his hat. His eyes softened as he spoke. “I did what had to be done. The prophecy–”

“Don’t bring your prophecy into this again. You could have found another way. There’s always another way.”

“When this is all resolved…”

She shook her head wildly again, her hair flying from its ties. “No. _No._ This isn’t going to be resolved. Harry is not something that will be resolved. How could you sacrifice him for something so, so…”

Dumbledore tipped his head back and levelled his bright gaze upon her. He tucked the bag back into his robe and folded his hands together in his lap, and he said, “Harry is my responsibility, and as such, I take full responsibility for what befalls him now, and for his recovery. I assure you, all is not lost. Have faith.”

“Have faith,” she repeated, disbelieving. Neville’s shoulders slumped and he put a hand over his eyes. Draco sympathized. The old man was mad, and one was always judged by the company one kept.

“Yes, have faith,” Dumbledore continued. “If you cannot have faith in me any longer, have faith in Harry, and have faith in the powers behind all. You look at the strands of fate and wonder that you cannot see the larger design, Miss Weasley. Search instead for the tapestry of destiny and you will see that all will be well. All will be resolved in time.”

Ginny’s eyes flicked back toward Draco’s and held.

* * *

“Harry. Harry. Harry?”

He surfaced slowly from the shadowed world of his mind, pulled reluctantly toward the voice that allowed no refusal. He had dreamt for the first time in months. He had dreamt of his mother, that he had lain with his head in her lap, her hand stroking through his hair. Her soft voice had been soothing, speaking words to him he could no longer remember. But as she had stroked his hair, she had brushed her thumb over the center of his forehead, just to the side of the scar, and she had leaned down over him and whispered…

What? He wasn’t sure. But it was as if the shadows in his mind had lifted, and all the closed doors were open. He felt almost invincible. Hogwarts, suddenly, did not seem so far away.

“How are you, Harry? You’ve slept for nearly eighteen hours.”

“Have I?” Harry stretched his neck, feeling the chain against his back, the collar against his neck, the bindings around his wrists. He wiggled his fingers as much as the bindings would allow and then sat up on his knees, stretching his back until he felt the tugging of the leather about his neck. “I feel rested. Good.”

Voldemort hesitated, a new and wonderful thing to experience. Harry felt a thrill shoot through his core at the sound of it. It settled deep in his stomach and he felt energy shiver along his nerves. The muscles in his arms quivered and his fingertips tingled. His body knew. The season was about to change.

“That’s good…” Voldemort said slowly and, after a moment, Harry heard the familiar sound of the bowl. “Are you hungry?”

Harry’s lips turned up, because, no, he wasn’t. “No, thank you.” He had the sharp taste of power on his tongue. It filled him and he felt no other hunger. His thighs tensed, muscles coiled.

“Oh.” The voice was uncertain and Harry rejoiced in it. “Thirsty?”

“No.”

He heard Voldemort take a breath and hold it for a moment before releasing it. “Are you certain you’re well, Harry?”

He smiled and pushed out with a thin thread of his mind, testing the collar, the chain and the bindings. He smiled wider, finding the usable cracks along their design. He jabbed at the bindings around his hands and wiggled his fingers again, loosening the ties until he could pull his wrists apart an inch or two. Cold air hit the thin layer of sweat on his skin, sending a shiver of promise up his spine.

“I’m perfect,” he replied, settling back against his heels. Behind him and to the left, he heard the birds and the windy rustling of leaves. 

He heard Voldemort take a step back. His voice was hesitant as he said, “I suppose I can allow you one day’s rest. It is your birthday, after all.”

Harry frowned and stopped, tilting his chin up toward the man. “It is?”

“Yes, it is.”

Harry paused, lowering his chin. His birthday. He was seventeen now. An adult as far as the wizard world was concerned. He could make his own choices now. He could _choose._

“Harry?” Voldemort’s voice was suddenly very hard and as sharp as a knife.

He pretended not to have noticed.

“Yes?”

“You were going to tell me something yesterday.”

It felt as if an era has passed since yesterday. The last day flashed to life behind his eyes and he could not recognize himself in the memory. He had been a shard of himself and he saw all his illusions of control as precisely that: illusions. He could still hear his mother’s gentle voice in the back of his mind, whispering to him from that small black box tucked in the shadows of his memory. He reached back and found that hidden recess open, unguarded even from himself, and within it… Within it was his control and his power. Within it was love, so much love.

His mother, his father, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Molly and Arthur, Hedwig, Sirius, Lupin, Hagrid, Severus. 

Severus.

Home.

He shivered and gasped as it all swept through him. Yes. Home. He wanted to go _home._

Now.

He breathed in deeply and felt his power expand with his breath, and he pushed again, jabbed, hacked at the bindings around his wrists and then, _yes,_ they gave way and the momentum of it flung him forward toward the hard ground. His hands came around automatically and he caught himself. The marble floor was cold against his palms. The chain flopped limp against his back.

“How?” Voldemort took that step forward again, but Harry’s head snapped up to glare at him. The world was still dark, but, in his mind’s eye, he could see the glowing outline of the man’s power - sickly green and purple like an old bruise.

“You said you’d give me whatever I wanted,” Harry said. “I ask you to let me go. You should have let me go, Tom.”

He drew more power into himself, feeling for his boundaries, testing them. His power thrummed beneath his skin; he could barely contain it. Voldemort glowed in his mind and he could clearly see the cracks in the man’s power. Yes, even Voldemort wasn’t perfect, it seemed.

Harry commanded and the leather collar snapped and fell in a crash of chain against the floor, snaking cold against his calf as it slid away. The world was still dark and black, but Harry could see him clearly now, see the edges of his energy, the cracks along his edges. It sparkled in the darkness of his mind like fireworks. He could see a bright golden spot of power tucked into the man’s pocket and he reached out his hand for it. The medallion flew into his palm.

“You should have let me go. None of this would have happened.”

Voldemort did not move, but Harry could smell his fear. He knew. Yes, they knew each other very well now.

“Well?” Voldemort taunted. “Are you going to kill me then, my little Harry?”

Harry sat up on his heels, pulling his power in close to him, but he couldn’t release it. It was trapped inside his chest, fluttering along with his heart, like a trapped bird. He could hear the man’s heartbeat and could feel it echoing inside himself. Voldemort’s heartbeat, the sound of his breath inside his chest, the flow of his blood through his veins: he would feel it as if it were his own blood and his own breath. He could feel the touch of the man’s hand against his head as he stroked his hair and his neck, as he massaged the tightness from his back.

“You can’t, can you?” Voldemort laughed bitingly. “You can’t kill me.”

Harry gazed up at him, “I can’t stay either.”

Voldemort snorted. “How do you expect to leave? The wards on this house are as strong as those of your precious school. Do you think I will let you walk away? And how far will you get, naked and blind?”

Harry felt the corners of his mouth turn up again, and, in his mind, he saw Severus’ room, saw the chairs and the fire and the piles and piles of books on China. He could feel the plush carpeted ground of the room, smell the faint scents in the air, the fire and the bunches of herbs drying from the rafters, the smell of dust and paper and leather. The scent of Severus.

Harry reached up and slid the medallion about his neck where the collar once gripped him. “Goodbye, Tom,” he said, as the medallion flared hot in his hand and he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on updates lately. RL has been getting in the way. The next few updates might be a bit slower, but it won't be a long wait, I promise! 
> 
> Thanks for all the support so far! Next chapter sees Severus and Harry reunited! :)


	11. Chapter 11

The room was silent save the scratching of their quills against paper. It was early enough in the day that the sounds from the inn below were muted. Ron paused in his writing to read over what he’d written and sighed. It was all shite, but Harry would never read it anyway. It hardly mattered.

Ron moved to dip his quill into the inkpot again, when Snape’s head snapped up suddenly, his eyes wild and focused on something just over Ron’s shoulder. Ron turned his head to see absolutely nothing remarkable, just the messy room and his own unmade bed. He looked back with a frown, but Snape had already shot to his feet. His chair tipped and clattered to the floor.

“What? What are you…? Hey!” Ron exclaimed when the man’s wand shot into his hand, his belongings flying across the room into his satchel. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Snape looked at him blankly for a moment, as if he had forgotten the weeks they had spent training and tracking down Death Eaters, and then he blinked and his dark eyes focused. “We have to go back. Now.”

“Now?” Ron stood from his chair, the unfinished letter rolling into a curl of paper. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” Snape glared at him and Ron’s things shot straight toward him.

“Awk!” Ron exclaimed and ducked like a good Quidditch player. His belongings crammed themselves in his backpack, including his muddy boots, he noted with dismay, and Snape tossed down a handful of gold coins onto the tabletop.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait! What’s going…? Ah, hey! What do you…? _Hey!”_

Snape grabbed his arm, grabbed their bags, and they Disapparated in a deafening snap of air. Ron stumbled on the mud-soaked ground beneath his feet, barely catching himself as his feet slid out from under him, and he grabbed for his bag as Snape let go of it.

“Hey, Snape, what the hell? Trying to splinch me…” He trailed off as he glanced up, and then he blinked, finding himself facing Hogwarts, the morning bright and misty, then he blinked again and hopped into action as Snape dashed away. “Snape, Snape! Bloody hell. You’re not even half-dressed, you stupid git! You can’t just go…!”

But Snape ignored him, striding at a breakneck pace down the long path to Hogwarts. His feet were bare and his white shirt tails flapped behind him, two buttons keeping the shirt from sliding off his shoulders. Ron dashed after him, buttoning his robe as he ran, wrinkling his nose at the feel of mud between his toes, splashing up his ankles. The mud path turned to hard packed earth, but Snape’s stride didn’t change, and, no matter his own long legs, Ron had to force himself to keep up.

“Snape,” he gasped, clinging to his bag. “Snape, you… you stupid… what the hell…”

Snape flung the doors open and disappeared into the dimly lit interior, allowing no pause for his eyes to adjust. Ron tripped over the threshold, his bag flying across the hall, and he threw his arms out in an effort to stay upright, his wet feet sliding across the floor until he met with carpet. Snape was already disappearing down the long stairway to the dungeons.

Ron had given up on words. He hadn’t the breath for it anymore. The dungeons, despite the torches along the walls, were dismally dark, and his eyes were having trouble adjusting to the sharp changes. He tripped his own feet, hitting the wall hard and biting down on his tongue, but he pushed away from the wall quickly to keep running. Snape was just a pale blur ahead of him, until he finally disappeared.

Ron stopped, panting, staring down at the unfamiliar stone stairway, and he eyed the statue of a girl recessed into the wall. Her eyes turned toward him and he stared at her for a moment before taking the steps three at a time. He fell forward into a warmly lit room that smelled faintly bitter, and then he stopped as if hitting a brick wall, his breath and voice catching in his suddenly dry throat.

Snape was on his knees in front of Harry, who was curled on the floor, shivering, his bare, pale feet peeking from the edge of a voluminous, dark robe. Snape had one hand on Harry’s back, the other on his shoulder, and as Ron watched, Harry lifted his head, his shaking hands already coming out to grip blindly at Snape.

“Severus, Severus, Severus,” Harry whispered desperately. His hands clutched at Snape’s shirt as he pulled himself closer, pulling Snape closer. “Severus, oh god, Severus, please…”

Snape hushed him, taking his face between his hands, breath stuttering faintly, awe in his voice, “Shh, Harry. I’m here. I’m here.”

“Don’t let go, please, don’t…” Harry’s hands moved up and wrapped around Snape’s neck, pulling him down. Snape coiled one arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulled him tight against his body, and Harry blindly sought Snape’s mouth as if it was the crux of his entire universe. They were flush from mouth to knees, and their mouths met, open and panting, breathing in desperate air. Snape cupped Harry’s face in one hand and his fingers stroked against his cheek. Snape’s eyes were open and wide and filled with wonder. He could see nothing but Harry.

Ron stood frozen in place, disbelief warring with a joy so sharp, he felt he might bleed from it. Harry moaned softly as Snape’s mouth trailed against his neck, and Ron blinked and then took a stumbling step backwards, then another, until he finally turned and stumbled blindly back up the winding stairs. He pressed one palm against the stone wall as the wall slid shut behind him and he breathed for a minute. 

Harry was back. Harry was safe. Harry was _alive._

His eyes flicked up to look at the stone girl again. She gazed back at him and they shared a long, frozen look, and then he pushed off the wall and ran.

Hermione.

* * *

“Severus,” Harry whispered against Snape’s lips. “Severus.” 

He ran his hand up the man’s neck, winding his fingers through that long, dark hair. It was thick and silky and slid like satin through his hand. He clenched his fingers in it and he stretched himself up again, pressing himself along the length of Snape’s long, hard torso. His heart pounded desperately in his chest, trapped like a bird within his ribcage. He could feel Snape’s heartbeat through the meager layers of clothing separating them and could feel the soft tick of it through Snape’s fingertips where they pressed trembling against Harry’s cheeks.

Snape’s mouth captured his own in a kiss with such sweet desperation, Harry felt tears escape his eyes and track down his face.

His hand shook as he slid it under Snape’s open shirt and down his bare chest. He felt Snape’s breath stutter in his chest. Harry didn’t know where Snape had been before he’d burst into his quarters, but he knew that Snape hadn’t spared a single thought before rushing here to him. Snape would never have been seen open like this, unbuttoned, exposed, not to the world. 

Harry curled his hand further under Snape’s shirt, tracing the feel of his painfully thin ribs, hidden under what felt like nothing more than a layer of silky, tissue-thin skin. Snape shivered at the sensation of Harry’s fingertips as they mapped his body. 

Under his touch, he found that Snape was thin, far too thin, as if he hadn’t eaten in days, weeks. As if he were half starved. Harry smoothed his hand up Snape’s side and over to trace along the centre of his chest, his fingertips as hungry as Snape seemed to be. He tilted up and brushed their lips together, and the catch and slip made his arousal flare hot through him. He exhaled sharply and Snape groaned against him, and for a moment, the only thing that existed in the world was the slide of their lips against one another, their mingled breath, and the feeling of soft skin beneath his hands. 

Harry brushed his palm over the hard chest against him and as his palm slid over a nipple Snape gasped into Harry’s mouth and he drew back to trace his nose along Harry’s cheek and up into his hair. Harry moved his palm again curiously, stroking lightly against the hardening nipple with the rounded base of his palm, and Snape groaned a raw sound into his neck, one torn from deep inside him.

“Harry,” he said, as if he’d never uttered the name _Potter_ before. “Harry, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. He opened his eyes into the familiar but now hated darkness and felt Snape’s small gasp against his lips. “I can’t. I really wish I could.”

“He blinded you? I...” Snape struggled against Harry’s hands and he framed Harry’s face between his palms, tilting it to examine his eyes. “This is more than I can… I’ll take you to the infirmary. Poppy can surely–”

“No, no.” A sharp clutch of fear spiked through him, and Harry tightened his fingers in Snape’s long hair. The words tumbled out of him in a panicked jumble. “Please, I don’t want to wait. I need you. I need to know that this… that I can… that they haven’t…” He slid his hands from where they had tangled, mindful not to tug. His body felt tight and electric but also strangely numb, as if it might not even be his own anymore.

He took a deep, trembling breath and tried again. “I want you, I do. But, let me hear your voice. I need to know it’s you. I need to know you’re not… that you aren’t…” The words caught again and he cleared his throat and drew in a shuddering breath. He should be able to finish a sentence. He should be able to speak. His hands clenched reflexively into Snape’s shirt. “I need to know that… that you aren’t…”

Snape’s smooth hand gentled across the back of his neck, drawing him forward into another soft kiss. Their lips clung for a moment, and Snape’s fingers carded into his hair, his nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine, and memories of another touch, another hand in his hair, rose up. He pushed the memories away, down into that locked box in the dark recess of his mind. The box had a broken lock, but he could still wedge all his dark memories into it, he could close it, he could push it back into the dark and forget all about it. It had to be enough.

“I’m sorry,” Harry turned his face into Snape’s neck, nosing behind his ear to breathe him in, and could not help but press his lips against his skin. “I’m sorry. I wanted to know, I wanted to know you, but… I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Snape hushed him and smoothed his hands over Harry’s face, down his shoulders and back, touch never leaving his skin beneath the robe. “I don’t know what happened to you, Harry. Not precisely, and now is not the time to tell me,” he said quickly as Harry opened his mouth. “Later. I will tell you what happened to me also. I promise you that. An equal trade. But right now, I need to know you’re safe, and I trust you need to know that very same thing.”

“Yes,” Harry hissed and swayed forward again, and his blind, unseeing eyes drifted closed. “Yes. Please.”

His mouth was captured again and Snape’s longer fingers traced down the line of his jaw, and Harry clutched at him and pressed himself hard against Snape. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest at the feel of him. Real, so real. Finally, so real.

“Yes, don’t stop, Severus,” he groaned, panting into Snape’s mouth, but, as Snape pressed into him, as though toward the ground, a sudden spike of fear lanced through him. “No, I haven’t… I can’t… Not on the floor, please. Not, I don’t want…”

“Shh,” Snape shushed him again, hands tracing comforting circles against his hips. “I know, Harry. I _know.”_

They pulled each other to their feet and Harry held on tightly, refusing to give up contact as he led them into Snape’s own bedroom. The room smelled like home. It was a faint scent and Harry knew that wherever Snape had been for the past while, it hadn’t been here, but the room still smelled like Snape. It smelled of wood smoke and cotton sheets and that sharp, bitter scent he had come to associate with Snape: smoke and charred herbs and raw potions. It wasn’t the most pleasant of scents, it wasn’t anything anyone would try to perfume, but it meant safety to Harry. It meant home.

He took Snape’s wrist and drew him closer, until he could bury his nose against Snape’s neck and breathe in the scent of him. He wrapped his arms around the man and held tight, and he pressed his ear to Snape’s quick, thrumming heartbeat, a sound he hadn’t yet memorized, but would soon.

“Harry,” Snape whispered and Harry felt the name vibrate against his cheek.

“Touch me, Severus,” Harry breathed against his skin. “Please, just touch me.”

Snape’s hands curled around his back; one long-fingered hand splayed against the small of his back, against his spine, one finger hitting low on his tailbone, and he said, “I’m here, Harry.” 

His body arched into the touch. His skin felt charged and sensitised, as though a storm brewed inside himself, and he could taste the sharp electricity of it against his tongue. He wrapped his arms tighter around Snape until they pressed together again, and a sharp gasp tore through him. Harry could feel Snape’s arousal strain against his hip, and he groaned as his own cock leapt in response. He pressed himself against Snape’s hard thigh, and the hand on Harry’s back clenched, fingers making cloth bite into skin. He felt Snape’s sharp inhale against his skin.

“Get this off me,” Harry rasped. He tugged at the metal clasp across his chest, knowing far too well that it bore the crest of the Dark Lord, naming him as property. “Get this _off_ me.”

The hand on his back stayed, but Snape’s other hand pressed against Harry’s, stilling them. The clasp snapped with a burst of heat and a sharp sound, and the smooth, cool robe slid down his bare skin to pool at his feet. He kicked it away furiously, hoping it landed in the fire, but then Snape’s hand was back on his skin, his other hand tucking under his chin to lift his head.

“Harry,” Snape whispered and kissed him again, softly now, tongue caressing his lips until Harry stopped shivering, and the muscles he hadn’t known he’d tensed relaxed. Harry parted his lips and exhaled through his nose, welcoming Snape back into his mouth with a grateful sigh.

He curled one hand high around Snape’s arm and then dug his fingers into the shirt. He pulled at it and it slipped from Snape’s shoulders, hanging from his elbows until Snape let it fall, and then Harry put his hand low on Snape’s stomach, feeling the muscles there tense and jump as he slid lower, coming to a stop at the edge of Snape’s trousers. A fine line of hair tickled against his knuckles, disappearing beneath the waistband. Harry’s breath rattled in his throat and his fingers trembled, and Snape’s hand again pressed against his own.

“We needn’t,” he said calmly, in a voice Harry recognized so well, it made him smile, despite the need vibrating through his body. He shook off the hand and unsnapped Snape’s trousers, lowered the zipper, listening to its metallic rasp, listening to Snape’s short, sharp breaths, and then he slid his hand in, following that smooth, soft trail of hair until it thickened into a coarse nest.

Snape groaned and his hips jerked as Harry closed his hand around Snape’s erection.

“Merlin, Harry… I…”

“Shh,” Harry told him with a smile and curled his sweating palm around it, stroking slowly, tentatively, for no matter that he had done this before, he had never done _this_ before. Snape made a choked sound above him, muscles tensing along his long, starved body, and Harry lifted his head to lick across those thin lips and felt Snape’s teeth clutching into his bottom lip, barely containing himself. 

He had never seen that barely harnessed need in Snape before; the man was far too adept at control. Occlumency aside, Snape had learned to survive through control. That he was allowing so much of his control to slip now… Maybe it was because Harry was blind. Maybe Harry’s inability to see his loss of control made it easier, safer. Whatever the reason, Harry accepted it and gladly. He quickly pushed Snape’s trousers down his hips and the man stepped out of them, kicking them away as blindly as Harry had done. Harry reached forward to grip him by those hips, pulled them together, and they thrust slowly as they rubbed, sweat-slick skin against skin.

Snape panted, his fingers trembling against Harry’s lower back, and Harry swayed backward, taking Snape with him, and his calves hit the edge of the bed. “Please.”

Snape bent and kissed him hard, and then lowered the two of them down onto the bed. Unmade, the tangle of blankets twisted against Harry’s spine and he crawled up the length of the bed backwards, dragging Snape with a deep kiss until his shoulders hit the pillows. He fell back into them and spread his legs around Snape’s hips, drawing the man down flush against him, thrusting upward into Snape’s hardness and heat. Harry took Snape’s hand and pushed it down until Snape’s long, tapered fingers brushed between his buttocks. He placed Snape’s fingers against his opening, and wrapped one leg over Snape’s hip, angling himself. He had learned this too, what worked and inadvertently pleased. But he didn’t want to think of what had brought him here. He wanted to live this moment. He just wanted… Absolution.

“Harry, no,” Snape struggled for the last of his control. “I… Dear Merlin, I don’t want to be like them.”

“You’re not. You couldn’t be. You never will be, never were.” He pulled Snape close again and arched his back. “Severus, I need you in me. Please, you have to… I need you to make me yours, just yours. Please…”

Snape bent over him, burying his face in Harry’s hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he confessed in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t, you can’t. I trust you, Severus.” Harry took Snape’s hand and guided it downward again.

“There,” Harry released a trapped breath as Snape’s fingers teased him. “Now.”

“Yes,” Snape replied and kissed him again, whispering a spell against his lips. His newly slick fingers slid over, around, and then finally, one finger breached him. Harry froze for a heartbeat, pulled his mouth away from Snape’s to gasp, and thankfully Snape didn’t stop, knew exactly… Harry almost sobbed as Snape slid the finger slickly deeper and he tilted his hips forward to give Snape better access. He pushed back into the feeling, a desperate greediness overtaking him. He could feel the motion of Snape’s arm, back and forth, as he moved his finger within Harry. 

Snape added a second finger and dropped one hand hard against Harry’s hip to hold his writhing motions still, tasting each and every gasp and moan that dripped from Harry’s mouth. “Like this?” He asked, mouth moving against Harry’s. He crooked his fingers and twisted them and a fiery spark of pleasure exploded within Harry as his dark vision flared white hot.

He gasped and undulated against Snape, crying desperately, “Fuck, yes! More!”

Snape pulled back and slid in again, a third finger stretching Harry until he knew nothing except the keen stretch and the gentle slide of Snape’s fingers, in and out of him. He lifted a hand and pressed it against Snape’s cheek, his fingers making do where his eyes failed. The man leaned into his touch and a delicious, calm stillness overtook Harry, blanketing his heart. He felt stripped and raw, drowning in pleasure, and desperately, finally _safe._

“Now,” Harry whispered faintly, his voice raw. “Like this.” And Snape nodded, his cheek sliding against Harry’s as he pulled his fingers from Harry’s body. Harry pushed back against the retreating fingers, his body perilously hungry for more.

Snape slid into him in one slow, steady push and they both groaned and dug sharp fingers into shoulders and hips. Harry tensed and panted out one hard breath as sensation overwhelmed him, engulfing him. Biting memories tried to overtake him again, but he pushed them back brutally. He focused on the man he held within himself, and he could feel their magic intertwining; if he opened his mind, he might very well become lost. Snape held himself still and kissed him, again and again, whispering exquisite encouragements as Harry quivered, until he finally breathed out a long, full breath and shifted his hips, and Snape slid the last inch into him, filling him as if they were built for one another.

Harry exhaled sharply, arching his neck back into the soft pillow. Snape pulled out slowly and thrust once, experimentally, and Harry rocked with it, moaning low in his throat, growls rolling over his tongue. He clutched one hand into the sheets and breathed his lover’s name. His tongue tasted his own sweat. He pushed back, and Snape thrust harder into him, rocking Harry further up the bed, and Harry pushed his arm up, bracing himself against the sturdy headboard. 

He cried out as Snape thrust again and then again and then _again,_ hips snapping in a rough, barely controlled rhythm. Snape’s hands were firm against his hips and his thighs burned from the stretch. His hand slid down, over his own stomach and then around his heavy cock, lips parting as he stroked himself for the first time in months. This would not last very long.

“Harry,” Snape grated between his teeth and pushed his face against Harry’s shoulder to muffle his next words. Harry felt his own name gasped against his skin and he tightened his grip on himself and quickened his strokes as he pushed back into each thrust. His guttural groans, pulled deep from his chest, sharpened into staccato cries. He curled his leg up and dug his heel into Snape’s spine, and Snape grabbed his hips tighter and shifted Harry, and the sudden change of the angle sparked a pleasure so fierce through Harry, it felt dangerous. He could no longer hold back his gasps and groans; the noises spilling from his lips were unearthly. With every thrust, Harry’s pleasure grew and grew and he arched and pushed into the sensation, chasing the jagged feeling within himself. 

Snape’s mind wrapped around his own, and Harry swam in sensation, echoed in their shared mind. Their magics wove together until Harry could taste him. His own name, _Harry,_ Snape groaned it as if it might be the only word he had left within him, and everything sharpened suddenly, bright and clear, and Harry threw back his head and came between them. His body clenched and released around the fullness inside him, over and over, as if it might never end. His body was a taut arch.

He shivered and clutched, the sharp, dangerous sensation flooding the numbness from his body until his skin felt electric, and Snape made a broken sound as he yanked Harry back, burying himself within Harry. He let out a long, low groan, and Harry felt the intense, deep pulsing of Snape’s release within himself.

Snape’s arms quivered as he lowered himself down to lay heavy against the man beneath him, and, after a short moment of useless, trembling muscles, he tried to push himself off, but Harry’s arms came around him like iron vices, keeping them pressed together, keeping their musky scent trapped heavy in the pocket of warm air surrounding them.

“Don’t go. Stay.”

“Not going anywhere,” Snape panted breathlessly into Harry’s neck, breathing in their mingled scents. He rolled them gently onto their sides and maneuvered Harry to lay against his chest, within the circle of his arms.

“Promise?” Harry asked softly, his voice quivering, and Snape kissed the skin before him, feeling the pounding thrum of Harry’s wild pulse beneath his lips.

“I am never going anywhere ever again, Harry.”

And Snape held him as Harry broke down in his arms and sobbed.


	12. Chapter 12

The walls of the Summer House rattled as the storm raged around it. Rain beat against the windows and walls; wind tore at the roof; thunder shook the floors. The gardens were thick with mud, and the roses and trees were stripped bare of colour. The lights within the house flickered angrily, mimicking the shots of lightning appearing through the rain and mud-soaked windows.

Voldemort stood in the center of his room, his feet planted on the tiles, which still bore traces of Harry’s warmth. Sharp winds whipped around him, snatching at his blood-red robes. Energy crackled around him, flashing from his fingertips and all along his skin, spiralling out into the room, snapping against the walls, sparking the candles higher and higher. Wormtail cringed before him, flanked on either side by a dark-eyed Bellatrix Lestrange and pale-haired Lucius Malfoy. The wind and energy ripped at them, stripping their skin raw, but they stood still and silent, save for Wormtail who quietly whimpered behind his hands.

The storm dimmed, and Wormtail peered from between his fingers at Voldemort, waiting for his first words.

“I am displeased.”

Lucius and Bellatrix exchanged a glance over Wormtail’s head.

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius answered after only a momentary pause.

Voldemort fixed his eyes on Lucius. “I am most displeased. My guest has left me, without so much as a by-your-leave. I hadn’t intended for him to leave so suddenly, Lucius.”

“No, Lord Voldemort,” he replied, holding the man’s gaze, but he unconsciously shifted from one foot to the other. The energy Voldemort had begun to siphon off of his followers had left him looking decades younger, his skin pink, his eyes sparkling. Lucius was uncomfortably aware that the lingering traces of his own distant youth could easily become fuel for Voldemort’s return.

“What has your son to say of this, Lucius? He was the last to see my guest. Does he know where he has gone?”

Lucius’s shoulders stiffened and he lowered his eyes before he replied, “I have not heard from my son since last I saw him, my Lord.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned away and paced several steps, his back tense and rigid.

“My eyes fail me, Lucius. My ears have turned deaf. Do you trust your son?”

“With my life, Lord.”

Voldemort turned back to gaze at him. “I hope your trust is not misplaced. Mine has been, several times over.” He looked at Bellatrix and held her sharp gaze as he murmured, “I want my guest back, Bellatrix. He must be returned to me. What news is there of my Severus? Might he be of use?”

Bellatrix lidded her eyes and tilted her head, allowing her dark hair to trail down over her shoulder. “He isn’t yours any more, Lord. He hasn’t been for some time.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Severus does not belong to himself. He never has and never will. If he is not mine, then to whom does he look? Certainly not to that poncy Dumbledore.”

“Harry,” Wormtail replied suddenly, his eyes surprised as if he had not expected himself to speak. He glanced warily from side to side and wrung his hands together, licking his lips before he spoke again. “Since the beginning, Snape was always very careful around Harry Potter. I saw it. I saw it myself.”

Lucius scoffed. “You must be joking. Snape abhors the Potter boy. Everyone knows it.”

Bellatrix wrinkled her forehead and brushed her long nails through her hair, tongue resting thoughtfully against one canine tooth. “That may not be true anymore, if it ever was. When I took the boy, Severus was there. He did not look pleased. And the boy stank of him, thoroughly. I think there may be more hidden here. Lies beneath lies.”

Voldemort laughed suddenly, and all eyes turned toward him. He ran a hand over his face and across his head, and he laughed delightedly. The sound of it made Wormtail shiver. “My two belong to one another? How… unexpected. And absolutely perfect. Devoted and faithful they may be to one another, but never more so than they are to me. Neither have the will to turn against me, this I know, and that will work to my advantage.”

Lucius and Bellatrix glanced at one another surreptitiously, and as Voldemort continued on, as if speaking to himself, Lucius forcibly suppressed an eyeroll. Bellatrix arched her eyebrow at him and they both settled into a more comfortable standing position. 

“The problem with my Harry,” Voldemort soliloquized, an eerie smile tugging at his mouth, “one which I never had with my Severus, has always been those who are devoted to him: his friends, his family.” 

His smile dimmed, and he frowned and shook his head lightly. His robe curled around his legs as he turned away from them and walked to the mud-splattered windows. “I have done away with what little family he possessed. His friends I will deal with in time. But a lover, that is a danger I had hoped to avoid by taking him so young. Perhaps I should have taken him sooner. But if my Severus is his lover, then all is well. Very well.” 

He turned and smiled widely at the trio. “Yes, all will be well. When I have my pair bonded by my side once more, faithful at my side, all will be very well, indeed.”

* * *

Ginny sat by Hermione’s bedside, stroking her fingers lightly over Hermione’s upturned palm. While the initial electricity of touch had faded, her skin now burned with an icy cold, as though in stasis. Her breaths were even and relaxed and she gave every outward sign of a deep sleep, but she was unnaturally still and gave no magical signature whatsoever. She was blank and empty and so kept under close watch, for any number of creatures existed which would appreciate a blank slate of a body to possess. 

A hand touched Ginny’s shoulder, and she jumped.

“It’s only me,” her mother hushed her and squeezed her shoulder. “I brought you some tea.”

Taking it with her free hand, Ginny smiled gratefully at her mother, dipping her head to blow gently over the steaming cup. “How are Hermione’s parents?”

Molly smiled quickly before she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Settling in well enough. They’re a mite overwhelmed, I’d say, and rather upset, but that’s understandable, poor dears. They’re resting now.”

Ginny sighed and looked back down at her friend. She shook her head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t see this.”

“You can’t see everything, dear. You shouldn’t try, either.”

“But I should be able to see more, to see where she’s gone. I know I have the power, I know it’s in me. I just can’t… I can’t reach it. I can’t help her.”

“Just because you have the power, doesn’t mean you should use it, Ginny.” Her mother sipped her own mug of tea and smoothed her hand over Hermione’s tangled hair.

Ginny looked up at her mother, watching her with a small frown line between her copper brows. “But…”

Molly shook her head, interrupting. “Most of us don’t have the kind of potential you possess. We’re… ordinary,” Molly said with a shrug and a small, self-deprecating smile. Her work-rough hands curled around her cup of tea, twining together. “And that’s fine. It’s the way it needs to be. Balance. But some of us are born with the potential to be legendary. Harry, for instance. He has power open to him that most of us could never hope to understand. You, my dear, you have great power open to you.”

Molly reached over and brushed her hand over and through Ginny’s hair, and she sighed. “But the problem with power like that is that your body can’t handle it. A wizard’s mind and body are no more special than a Muggle’s, dear, and they can only handle so much before they break down. I don’t want to see that happen to you, Ginny. Don’t try to be more than you can handle.”

Ginny rubbed her nose against her wrist.“I just… I wish there was more I could do for Hermione. I wish I knew how to find her.” She shook her head and opened her eyes to look at her mother. “I wish –” She began and then cut off abruptly as she turned to look at the infirmary doors one moment before they flew open.

Ron stood still and ghostly pale in the doorway. Molly sucked in a breath at the sight of him, and as she moved to sit up, Ginny dropped a restraining hand against her arm.

“What happened to her?” Ron whispered in an empty voice. His eyes were round and shadowed with dark circles. He walked over slowly and stood on the opposite side of the bed from his sister and mother. His hand hovered over Hermione’s. “She’s cold as ice,” he whispered and stared down into her empty eyes. He touched her face gently with the pads of his fingers. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Ginny stared at her brother, at the changes in him. It had only been two months, and yet he was darker, shadowed, harder. Stronger. “I found her like this, but I don’t know how it happened.”

“How long ago?” His voice sounded haunted.

“Not long. I found her yesterday.”

He looked up at Ginny and the look in his eyes made her stomach clench and twist. “When did it start? How long… Since when?”

She sighed and looked away, looked down at Hermione. “Before you left. Since Harry was taken. A long time. She’s didn’t take any of it… well.”

“And I didn’t see it. I thought…” He cleared his throat and stroked his thumb over Hermione’s wrist. He shook his head. “No. No, I saw it. I knew. But I didn’t want to. It was too –” He broke off sharply and bowed his head down into Hermione’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her icy skin. “Hermione, forgive me.”

Molly slid her hand around Ginny’s back and circled the bed to touch her hand to Ron’s.

He leaned up into the touch and looked up at his mother. “Why didn’t she say anything? Why did she let me leave?”

Molly smiled sadly and stroked his longish hair back from his face, fingering the ragged edges. “Because she loves you, dear. She loves you.”

His breath caught sharply as he gazed up at his mother, his blue eyes pale and stricken, and his throat worked in a rough swallow. He looked back down at Hermione and ran his fingers down from her forehead, tracing her nose, smoothing over her lower lip as she puffed out shallow breaths. His mother’s hand trailed off him and both she and Ginny slipped away, drawing the curtain around the bed behind them. Ron leaned over Hermione again, resting his cheek against hers. 

“Hermione,” he whispered and crawled up the bed. His face hung only a breath away from hers as he braced himself over her. “Hermione, please. Come back.” He leaned down the bare space and kissed her dry lips. “I need you.”

He buried his face in her neck and wrapped his arms around her still body, breathing as she breathed.

* * *

Hermione turned and frowned, peering off into the changing distance. Sirius turned back to look at her, a question in his eyes, and her frown deepened as she looked back at him.

“Did you hear that?”

He lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, looking around himself. “Hear what, luv?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “It’s ‘luv’ now, is it?”

Sirius offered her a rakish smile and set his hands on his hips. “Don’t read much into it. You’re quite nice, but sadly, not my type.”

Grinning, she caught up to him and slipped her arm into his. “And who would be your type?”

“Ah!” Sirius grinned off into the distance, and they began walking again. “Easily said, that. My type is quiet, studious, intelligent, with sandy-brown hair…”

“Yes?” She eyed him in amusement and fingered her own brown hair.

He grinned again, still gazing ahead into the misty landscape, and continued, “Amber eyes, a split lupine/human personality…”

“Remus!” She gasped and looked up at him. “Remus Lupin? Professor Lupin?”

Sirius looked down at her in surprise. “You know Moony? My Moony?” He shook his head at himself and sighed, “Yes, of course you know him. He’s a professor?”

“He was, for a year. Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

He laughed suddenly, shaking his head in amusement. “Moony teaching. That would have been a sight. Was he any good?”

“He was brilliant. Though, we haven’t much to compare him against. But you? And Professor Lupin? Really?”

“Yes, really. Imagine that.”

Hermione blushed and Sirius laughed, and he tightened his arm about her.

“Ah, I see you’ve begun already. Dirty mind, you.”

“But – you’re telling the truth. Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly. We were a pair, he and I, right from the get-go. Straight from day one of first year, King’s Cross, platform 9¾. Well,” he amended and changed their direction to avoid a patch of rapidly changing ground. “We weren’t quite the pair you’re imagining then. Not at eleven, no, that came later. But even after things had changed, they never really did. The rest, that was just… extra, really. He was my friend, the best of them all. That lasted all the way through.”

“Even in Azkaban?”

His expression grew pensive and solemn, as it always did when the prison was mentioned. He still had no real memory of the place and the time. The memories he possessed were vague and disconnected, as though he remembered another person’s story, told to him ages ago.

“Azkaban was different, I think. Dark, blurry, mind-numbing. It wasn’t a real place, not after so many years. In the beginning, sure. I thought of Moony often, and…” Sirius frowned in thought. “I didn’t blame him, you know. For sending me there.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “He sent you there? No… No, he didn’t. You were sent there by the Ministry. Remus didn’t turn you in. It was Peter.”

Sirius shook his head slowly. “No… no. I went to Moony, I think. After Peter accused me but before the Ministry found me. I went to him. I wanted him to know that I hadn’t done it, that I would never have done it. But he didn’t believe me. Not that I blame him for that. It was a strange time, confusing. And we trusted Peter. No one thought he would have betrayed James and Lily any more than they thought I would have.” 

He stepped over a bluish, pulsating lump in the ground and then stopped and looked around himself, looked down at Hermione. “I never blamed him for it, you know. Never. It’s not just here. I never had to forgive him for anything, because I never blamed him. He didn’t understand that, when I came back. He felt guilty, but he didn’t understand. I never blamed him at all. I always loved him.”

He tilted back his head to stare up at the swirling colours above them. “That hurt, you know, more than anything else. That he couldn’t forgive himself. I wish I could tell him that. When you go back, tell him for me, would you? Tell him to forgive himself.”

“Someone will find us. You can tell him yourself.”

Sirius smiled sadly and began walking again, toward the faint brightness in the sky. It felt as if they had been walking toward that light for weeks, but there was no fatigue in her body. She could walk forever here.

“I have been here a long time, Hermione. No one is looking for me anymore. I’m forgotten.”

“No! You’re not forgotten, you’re just…”

“Dead.” He smiled again and hugged her with one arm. “It’s alright. I’ve had time to think about it, to accept it. I don’t mind. But you, you’re not dead. They’ll look for you. They’ll find you. And when they do, you’ll tell Moony. Right?”

She nodded and swiped at her stinging eyes. “Of course. Of course, I’ll tell him.”

Sirius nodded solemnly and dug his free hand into his pocket, hooking his thumb through an empty belt loop. He gazed off into the changing landscape and spoke decisively at the sky, “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Harry next chapter! (And _someone_ finally tells Dumbledore to stuff it.)


	13. Chapter 13

When Harry awoke, he knew immediately that everything had changed. 

A big indicator was that he lay in a bed – warm and surrounded by the scent of wood fires and the sleepy musk of their bodies and the sex they had shared. Snape had haphazardly drawn the blankets over the two of them at some point; Harry could feel the tangle of them against his chest, although his legs were mostly uncovered and exposed to the cooler air. He could feel the warmth radiating from Snape beside him and hear the man’s soft breaths. 

There would be no fruit waiting for him on the tips of smooth fingers and no gentle, coaxing flutter against his mind. No cold, heavy chain sliding against his spine or warm collar closing like fingers against his throat. The room was small and intimate, not the cavernous room with its chilled marble floor and echoing walls. 

And they were alone. Voldemort was not here, not here between them. Harry had left him behind, he reminded himself, although, as the thought crossed his mind, it was almost as if he could still feel the slippery presence of Voldemort against his mind. He could still feel the man’s touch against his skin, and he shivered as the feeling intensified for a moment, goosebumps rising along his skin, tactile and visceral, as if he hadn’t managed to escape.

Harry whimpered despite himself and pressed closer to Snape, who groggily hushed him as he buried his face in Harry’s neck and nudged his hairline with his prominent nose.

Harry turned into his body, pressing close, and he inhaled deeply, letting the smell of the man invade his senses, letting it chase away the memory of Voldemort’s scent, the slick, creeping feel of it. Harry pressed his ear against Snape’s chest, listening to the thrumming of his heart, of the blood through his veins, the gurgle of his stomach, the real, honest sounds of his body. No, Severus wasn’t Voldemort. It was all different: every sound from him, every smell, just the very feel of him. He didn’t need to see to know. It was clear to him, as clear as anything had ever been. This was what he wanted, what he had been wanting all along before any of it had begun. This felt like where he belonged.

“Morning,” he murmured against Snape’s chest and took in another breath of the man. He smelled raw and sharp and musky, sweat and firewhiskey bleeding from his pores, ink from his fingertips, wood-fire from his hair. A sensory record of where Snape had been, without him.

“Afternoon,” Snape corrected with a catch in his voice, and it made Harry instinctively lift his head to look at his face despite being unable to see it. His right hand came out and traced along Snape’s features, mapping them against his palm. He ran his fingertips across his thin lips, over the line of his nose, gently thumbing the depressions of eyes and cheeks, and up to trace his eyebrows.

“Thank you,” Harry said and felt Snape’s forehead wrinkle under his touch.

“For?”

“Saving me.”

Snape shook his head. “I didn’t. I couldn’t find you.”

Harry tilted his head and asked, “You came looking for me?”

Snape paused and Harry moved his hand over his lips, feeling them move against his palm. “Of course. I… but I couldn’t find you, Harry. I didn’t save you. You shouldn’t thank me when I didn’t…”

Harry pressed his hand down, stopping the words. He leaned over and moved his hand, pressing his lips to Snape’s before leaning back, wishing he could watch Snape’s confusion and uncertainty. Wishing he could see him so undone.

“I didn’t expect a rescue, not after… He would never have let anyone. You know that.” Harry paused, leaning down and letting his cheek rest against Snape’s. “In the beginning, yes, but then, until the end, the very end, I doubt I would have let you take me away. I lost myself for a time, you know. I’m not sure I would have let you save me. There was very little left of me then. I nearly gave him everything.”

Snape’s breath hitched against his neck and Harry smiled because he could now. “I had to decide to save myself. If it weren’t for Draco… I guess I owe him one now.”

“Draco?” Snape pulled back.

Harry shook his head. “Later, I can tell you later. Now, I think I’d like to go see Madam Pomfrey. I would like to be able to see again, if that’s at all possible.”

Snape jerked away and fumbled from the bed. Harry listened to him tumble over the side and onto his feet, and he grinned down, hiding behind his curtain of hair. He doubted Snape wanted to be laughed at. 

“Of course,” Snape stuttered and cleared his throat, reaching out for Harry and guiding him off the bed. His hands were cold against Harry’s skin, and he could almost feel Snape’s gaze as it tracked over his bare form. 

“Clothes, Severus?”

“Right,” the man replied and spun away. Harry listened to him fumble through his wardrobe. “Here,” fabric was thrust into his hands. “The trousers will be too long, but surely they will suffice for the time being.”

Harry slipped into them, and he pulled the jumper over his head and shook out his long hair, tousling it back before asking, “Will you be getting dressed too, or are you going to walk me down to the infirmary naked?”

“Bollocks,” Snape cursed under his breath and Harry couldn’t help but laugh that time. “Amused, are we?” Snape asked in a sardonic voice and Harry nodded, grinning.

“Very. I wish I could see you like this. It might almost make it all worthwhile.”

Snape froze, and he hesitated, saying, “Harry…” But Harry shook his head and put out a hand, letting Snape catch and squeeze it.

“Don’t. Not now. I just want to get my sight back. All right?”

“Yes,” Snape gripped his hand and then let it go to dress. “Yes.”

He could have just as easily Apparated himself to the infirmary. The medallion still hung about his neck, cool and dormant, but he let Snape take his arm and lead him through the hallways, up the stairs, around the corners. Hogwarts was even more of a maze in his blindness, but he didn’t feel trapped by it, or overwhelmed. He was glad to be home.

They stepped only once into bright, burning sunlight, and, as he tilted back his face to greet it, it greeted him back. He heard the flurry of feathers, the tumultuous bedlam of screeches and hoots, and from somewhere above him, Hedwig dropped to his shoulder, biting furious hellos along his chin. He laughed and curled his hands up to hold her, settling her against his neck until she nearly cooed like a turtledove, perfectly content to cuddle into his skin.

“She found you, then,” Snape drawled and Harry felt the movement as the man reached over to drag his fingers through her ruff. She nipped at Snape’s fingers gently, greeting him with contented hatchling noises and then she cuddled back against Harry. “She kept me quite good company while you were away”, he said, as if he’d been gone on holiday for a long weekend.

“You seduced my owl while I was gone?”

“I did nothing of the sort. Your owl took it upon herself to become my charge. Or rather, I became her charge. She can be quite a stringent guard when the situation calls.”

“Yes, she can,” Harry pet Hedwig lovingly and began walking again, setting one hand up to hold his owl in place, and the other down to curl his hand about Snape’s wrist.

As they pushed through into the infirmary, he knew immediately where he was. The filtered heat from the sun shining through the windows hit his face again, but it was the smell more than anything. Antiseptic and sterile, clean cotton and astringents. And he apparently had a welcome party awaiting him.

“ _Harry!_ Merlin, Harry! Ginny, Ginny! Where did that… It’s Harry!”

Molly Weasley, he identified quickly, and she growled, “What did you do to him you… you… just you… get your hands off him, blasted man.”

Snape let go of him immediately, but Harry grabbed for him again, lacing his fingers with Snape’s longer ones before he could escape.

“Molly, it’s okay,” he said, even as Ginny’s voice appeared from the darkness, saying, “Mum. For Merlin’s sake, mum, just relax. Professor Snape is… _Mother!”_

Hedwig bristled and hissed, and Snape said in a dry voice, “If you would kindly lower your wand and fetch Madam Pomfrey? Mr. Potter could use her attention.” Harry could almost see the quirk in the corner of his lips. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” Madam Pomfrey said, appearing behind Harry, taking his arm and leading him away, pulling his fingers from Snape’s. Hedwig released her claws from his shoulder, releasing him into Pomfrey’s care, and it was then that Ron’s voice appeared to the other side of him, saying, “Now look what you’ve done, you bloody git of a man. Causing all this trouble. I know it was you.”

Harry opened his mouth to defend Snape and attempted to pull away from Madam Pomfrey’s iron grip, but Snape’s voice stopped him, amused and good-humoured.

“I can hardly be held to blame for all the world’s ills, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps you should ask you mother to lower her wand as she seems unwilling to listen to reason and will therefore listen to you.”

“Maybe I _should_ let her blast you a new one, Snape. It would only serve you right for – ”

A door closed, cutting off the sound, and Harry squirmed against Madam Pomfrey’s hold.

“Goodness, Harry, hold still. I can’t do this if you keep squirming around like a handful of doxies. Just let me,” she grasped his chin and tilted back his head, shining a hot light in his face. “Let me see… Hmm, nasty piece of work here,” she tsked. “All right. Hold very still. This might hurt a little. No, still. Very still. Yes, don’t move now, not at all, don’t breathe. Keep your eyes open and…” A splash of burning liquid fell in each of his eyes, making him cry out in surprise, and she said, “There we are. Blink through it, Harry, and then look around, tell me what you see.”

He blinked back the burning drops and shook his head, opening his eyes to peer blurrily around the room. His legs came into focus first, black trousers, heavily cuffed, and from there he lifted his head and peered at his hands and his fingernails, previously ragged but now trimmed cleanly. He turned up his head, scowled at Madam Pomfrey who gazed at him and held up three fingers. 

“How many?”

He glared at her. She was blurry, but that had more to do with his missing glasses than to anything else. “Three! You couldn’t have warned me? That hurt!”

“I did warn you.” She set the small dark-glass bottle back on the shelf and dusted off her hands, reaching around and handing him a miraculous set of spare glasses and then, “Here, have some chocolate. It will do you good. Now, I’m going to need a full account of what was done to you, Harry.”

He froze in the act of bringing the glasses to his face, and he lifted his eyes to stare at her.

She stared back at him, and despite the blurriness of his vision, he could tell she bore her best no-nonsense expression.

“It doesn’t have to be today. I can give you a general healing potion that should assist with anything uncomplicated. But let’s not mince words here: there will be ramifications to what was done to you, Harry, and it is my job to see to the medical. I cannot do that without information.” She took the glasses from his limp hand and slid them onto his nose. Her face came into focus and she did, in fact, have an expression that allowed little leniency. Her eyes were very kind, however.

She continued, “You can speak to me, you can put it into writing, or you may transfer it to me by way of pensieve memories, but you _will_ provide me with a full account. In return, I promise to treat the information you give me as confidential and I will see to it that you receive any and every medical treatment required. Are we agreed?”

He opened his mouth and she lifted an eyebrow at him. He closed his mouth again and looked down at the chunk of chocolate in his hand. His stomach twisted. “Yes, I… Yes. Madam Pomfrey. I will.”

“Good.” She patted his arm. “Now, off with you before the Weasleys turn the professor into a toad. But don’t wander. I need to give you that potion. I just need to fetch it before I let you go.” 

She brushed him to his feet and back out into the main infirmary where he saw the three redheads facing the professor. Snape had his back to Harry, and so Harry took a moment to gaze at the line of his back and shoulders as he let one piece of chocolate melt on his tongue. Hedwig perched on the professor’s left shoulder, glaring sharply between the three redheads, apparently willing to protect Snape as eagerly as she’d protect Harry, and he smiled at that. 

Ginny caught his eye first, and she smiled at him, a nod of her head, her eyes searching his, and he nodded back, keeping his mind locked from hers, before turning his head and looking at Ron. He couldn’t help but note how changed his friend looked. Ron was taller, and thin and pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and the smile on his face didn’t shine as brightly as it had before. Ron shifted his gaze and met Harry’s and held it for a long moment before glancing at Snape and nodding toward Harry.

Snape turned and Harry looked at him for the first time in months.

He was thin. Much too thin. Dark circles under his eyes, like Ron’s. But when Harry felt his mouth stretch into a smile, Snape’s lips twitched up into a reciprocating smile. It was only for a heartbeat, but it had been there. There was something new in his eyes as he gazed over at Harry. The hesitance from them had been burned away and the expression was no longer as reserved as it had once been. He looked weary, yes, but there was a hint of colour to his face and his eyes were dark and sparkling. He looked… Someone, if they looked closely, might mistake him for happy.

Harry pushed a hand through his hair. “My sight is back,” he said, meeting and holding Snape’s gaze again, and he stepped further into the room, felt the crackle of energy pass between the two of them. The man looked tired, but he looked _good._ Now that he could see him, all Harry wanted was to touch and watch Snape fall apart under his hands. Something in his own gaze must have betrayed him, because Snape swallowed heavily and shifted on his feet.

Molly spun at the sound of his voice and rushed over to him, breaking the hot gaze between Snape and himself. She took his face in her hands and looked him over. “Oh, Harry! You’re back and you’re…” She patted her hands down his arms. “You’re fine. You’re… Well, physically, you are. Emotionally, you must be… Oh! Harry. Poor dear,” she collected him to her chest and enveloped him in motherliness, stroking her hands down his hair. Harry balked for a moment, embarrassed, but her arms tightened and he finally sank into her warmth, ducking his chin and wrapping his arms tight, inhaling the pervasive scent of bread from her robes. She pulled away after a moment and peered into his eyes.

“You know you can speak with me? About anything?”

He could not quite meet her eyes. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, although he would never tell her a word of it, not voluntarily. He would never willingly tell anyone if he could help it, but some choices were not his to make. He doubted Madam Pomfrey would allow him much time, and he conceded to the merit of that. Ginny would want to know, and she would try, but if he had learned to lock his mind from Voldemort, Ginny was far less of a challenge. Dumbledore would likely know, in that way that allowed him to know everything. There were no defences against that. He would try to avoid telling Ron and Hermione, they deserved to be untainted by it, but they were both unlikely to let him get away with that again for long. And Severus… He pulled away from Molly and turned to look at Severus again. Yes, Severus would hear it all. Because who else would understand it all?

As their eyes met, he saw comprehension sweep over Snape’s expression. He lifted his hand to stroke absently through Hedwig’s feathers and nodded once, and Harry’s lips curved into a sad smile. He didn’t want to relive any of it. It was over now and he wanted to forget it. He wanted to move on, and he wished he could wipe his mind as clear as his body could be, but Snape would be the one person who would understand. He would understand what he had lived through, the choices he had made, what he would try to forget and what he could never forget. He would understand everything. And Harry knew, as he gazed at him, that they likely both needed this – someone to understand.

He looked around, searching for the elusive Madam Pomfrey, but she was nowhere to be found. He was going to leave soon, potion or no potion. It wasn’t like he needed it. They’d healed him very thoroughly every time, trimmed his hair and nails and washed his body clean. And he was going to be dragging the Potion Master along behind him back down to the dungeons, and surely, whatever potion Pomfrey had in mind could be had just as easily from Snape. 

Eventually, when they got around to it. 

He looked back at Snape with a sly smile on his lips, a plan for the afternoon developing prominently in his mind, and his eyes managed to catch Snape’s eye in time to see him flush, rosy spots appearing on his pale cheekbones and sliding down his neck. Snape looked away, up toward the ceiling, as if suddenly very interested in the architecture of the room. Hedwig clacked her beak as if chiding him and Snape glared at her.

“Are you well, Harry?” Molly spoke to him again and fussed at his collar. Her eyes kept dipping down toward his neck, and he assumed the evidence of the collar must be clear. He pulled back from her and did up the last two buttons of his shirt.

“I’m fine, Molly. I promise. But… I’m tired,” he told her and glanced over at Snape again, who was doggedly avoiding his eyes. “I think I’d like to go back to bed.”

Snape suppressed a small sound as he looked out the windows and coughed to cover it.

Harry held back his smile and looked around the room again. Pomfrey had not yet appeared, but as his gaze crossed the room, he met Ginny’s eyes. She stared at him a moment, tilting her head to the side, a small wrinkle between her neat brows as she tried to decipher whatever information she was gleaning. She glanced over at Snape and her brows rose sharply, and she whipped her head back toward Harry. He smirked a little, because she got exactly what she deserved for looking too closely. She blushed and bit her lip, and then grinned down at the floor. Ron glanced between the two of them and then at Snape and his eyes grew round for a moment before he rolled them and looked away. Harry grinned despite himself.

He opened his mouth to suggest leaving and coming back later when a foul-smelling flask was thrust beneath his nose and Madam Pomfrey said, “Down with it, all in one.”

He twitched away from her, but she thrust the flask into his hands and folded her arms tightly over her chest. He eyed it distrustfully – it wasn’t the normal healing potion, it was something different – but he sighed and swallowed it in one go. It tasted of fresh cut grass, a lovely smell but less than pleasant on the tongue. It settled in his stomach, turning warm, and he felt it spread along his veins, up behind his eyes and throbbing until his head swam with the feeling of it. He felt as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of summer or as if he stepped from a warm bath into a hot sunny day. Tension he hadn’t known he’d kept in his shoulders relaxed and the pain in his hips and lower back from two months on his knees relented.

Madam Pomfrey took the flask from his lax fingers briskly and nudged him off, murmuring something to Snape about Dumbledore wanting to see them. He couldn’t manage to hear every word that she whispered to Snape, but he saw Snape as gave a curt nod. The Weasleys watched Harry carefully, as if he might disappear at any moment, and he smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way as he stepped toward Snape, but he wasn’t certain his muscles were obeying his mind. The smile was likely very lopsided.

Harry felt far too relaxed to try to say anything, and left it to Snape to say any final words to Pomfrey and the Weasleys before they left. He was momentarily distracted by the shine of the sun through the windows, casting a rainbow against the floor, and when Snape brushed Hedwig from his shoulders and sent her away through an open window, the sight of her wings captured Harry’s attention completely. With a final word of promise to Madam Pomfrey, Snape took Harry’s arm, gripping gently yet insistently, and he lead him from the infirmary. Harry took several steps, following Snape down into the corridor overlooking the main entrance, feeling as if he might be drunk, and he leaned into Snape’s side, tilting back his head to gaze up at Snape affectionately, and he whispered conspiratorially, “That was some potion.”

Snape glanced down at him, a quirk in the corner of his mouth, and Harry had a sudden, overwhelming urge to taste it. He curled his arm up around Snape’s neck and drew him down the short distance. Snape hesitated, with a glance around their public location. Feeling the pause, Harry stopped a breath away from his lips and met his eyes. Snape looked down at him, excuses behind his teeth, and then also stopped. Harry smiled at him, completely overcome with the summery feeling travelling through his veins.

Snape gazed down at him for a long moment and then smiled against Harry’s lips and kissed him.

* * *

Lupin paced the floor of the Headmaster’s office, arms folded tightly across his chest as he growled at the floor and the walls and the chair in his path and in one mistaken moment, Dumbledore himself. The Headmaster had only lifted an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, dunking cinnamon snaps into his steaming cup of tea. Lupin rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose, pinching tightly, fighting back a headache. Tension thrummed through his body, setting his nerves on edge, and when the door opened, he jumped nearly out of his skin, and turned to find Harry walking in, arm curled about Severus Snape’s.

Lupin’s words cut off on his tongue as he stared at the two of them, his nose twitching, his senses swimming in scents. He doubted he required his lupine senses to know that they had picked off where they had left off months ago, as if nothing had been learned. 

Harry lifted his eyes and looked at Lupin, and Lupin swallowed at what he found there. Eyes like that did not belong on a child. There was an air about him, as if he had aged a decade rather than a handful of weeks. He did look as if he had been well tended during his captivity, however. His hair was longer, but not unkempt or unwashed, and while he seemed to have lost weight, he had not lost as much as Snape seemed to have done. He had been fed and bathed, and Lupin could not immediately see any sign of lingering physical injury. A hopeful part of him clung to the idea that perhaps Harry had come through unscathed. 

He glanced at Snape and winced. The man looked half-dead. Wherever he had disappeared to, no one had bothered to remind him to eat or sleep, and Snape had never been someone who could be trusted to care for himself.

Dumbledore stood from behind his desk and circled it, holding out a hand to Harry, which the young man took without releasing Snape’s arm.

“Happy Birthday, Harry, my boy. Seventeen, hmm, and fully grown. Congratulations.”

Harry released Dumbledore’s hand, and he pushed back a long hank of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “Thank you. I keep forgetting that’s what today is. It’s been… a long day. I’m glad to be home.” He glanced over at Lupin again and tipped his head, and looked up at Snape for a moment before releasing his hold on the man. He took the three steps to reach Lupin and held out a hand. Lupin stared at it a moment before it registered and he fumbled to uncross his arms and take the hand, gripping it with far too much strength.

“Hello, Remus,” Harry said softly, watching him with cautious, perceptive eyes. “Everything all right?”

Lupin’s eyes widened. “Everything…? Harry!” He pulled on the hand and wrapped his arms around Harry, enveloping him in a desperate hug. “Circe’s ghost, I’m glad you’re safe.” He pushed Harry away and gazed at him again, looking him up and down. There was a very faint redness around his throat, a band of worn skin that perhaps only his eyes could detect, and Harry swallowed and lifted a hand to draw his collar farther up around his neck. Lupin met his eyes, holding them. “Are you all right?”

Harry nodded without saying a word. Lupin held his eyes a moment longer and then nodded, releasing him. He stepped away and looked up at Snape, eyeing him for a moment before he took the steps over and held out his hand. Snape looked at it with a small frown between his brows.

“Thank you for finding him,” Lupin said and Snape’s face cleared as he shook his head.

“I didn’t. He found me.”

Lupin frowned and turned to look at Harry again, but Dumbledore chose that moment to clear his throat. He smiled at Harry and crossed back around his desk to sit down, motioning for the other three to do the same. “It sounds like there is quite a tale behind this return. Perhaps you might like to enlighten us, Harry?”

Harry sighed and glanced back at Snape quickly before sitting down, seemingly reassuring himself of the man’s presence. He moved slowly and hesitantly, as if unsure of how to behave after so many months with Voldemort. He folded his hands in his lap and gazed down at them. “I don’t think I can tell the whole story. It involves people who…”

“…are well-known to us,” Dumbledore finished, nodding. “You may speak freely.”

Harry’s forehead wrinkled uncertainly, and he glanced from Snape to Lupin. “They both know?” He asked.

Snape frowned and glanced at Dumbledore. “Know what?”

Lupin shook his head, circling a chair to sit in it wearily. “He doesn’t know.”

“Know what?” Snape repeated sharply, coming to stand by Harry’s elbow. He turned his razor glare from Lupin to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore sat back and steepled his fingers, gazing up and over them at Snape. “Severus, whether or not you are aware of it, you are a member of the Inner Order of the Phoenix.”

“Pardon?” Snape frowned, and Harry sat forward, opening his mouth to speak, but Lupin sighed again, rubbing his forehead and spoke.

“The Inner Order has the rather specific task of seeing to Voldemort’s demise. You, and I, and others, are members.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “This is the first I have heard tell of it.”

“’Seeing to Voldemort’s demise’?” Harry parroted. “Isn’t that the point of the Order itself? Why the need for another one?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, drawing eyes toward him. “The Inner Order’s mission is a delicate one. One which cannot be spoken of lightly. Nor, unfortunately, can we speak of it to those who are not preordained members.”

“’Preordained members’?” Harry repeated again.

Lupin looked away, suddenly fascinated by the arm of his chair, and Dumbledore only shook his head.

“The Inner Order cannot be spoken of to you, Harry. You are not a member.”

“Not a… Why not?” He snapped, sitting forward in his chair, arms braced. “I think I’ve earned the right to know everything by this point. Who has the right to know what I don’t?” He paused and then growled low in his throat, face curving in disgust. “Malfoy. Malfoy knows.”

“Draco?” Snape looked from one person to the other. “How is Draco Malfoy involved?”

Harry curled his lips into a snarl, sitting back. “He’s the one who found me. He came to rescue me. Without him, I’d still be there.”

“But I had believed… You rescued yourself.”

“I did,” Harry nodded. “But Malfoy… Draco… I wouldn’t have wanted to leave without him. He…” Harry shook his head slowly. “Can I tell you later? I don’t want to…” He turned his head up to look at Snape and the man gazed back at him a moment before offering a curt nod. Harry smiled a small, tight smile and looked back at Dumbledore. His eyes narrowed and his hand tightened on Snape’s arm.

“Draco Malfoy is a spy for the Inner Order.”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

Harry growled and looked away for a moment, but Snape startled and he demanded, “A spy? Draco? How is it that I never knew of this?”

Lupin turned his head toward him with a smirk. “Because he’s better at it than you are, Severus.”

Harry clenched his hand as Snape moved suddenly, and he shot a warning look at Lupin, who had the decency to look abashed.

“This isn’t the time for that. I want to know about this Inner Order. I want to know everything. I deserve to know everything,” he told Dumbledore, eyes narrowed at the elderly man.

Dumbledore gazed back at him through lidded eyes, leaning forward on his folded hands. Harry glared at him, and both Snape and Lupin eyed the Headmaster as well, waiting for his answer. Even the portraits on the wall were silent.

“Well?” Harry demanded finally.

Dumbledore slowly closed his eyes and then opened them to gaze at Harry, and he said, “No.”

“No?”

The man shook his head, sitting back in his chair. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are not a member. You know far too much already. Be content with what we have told you.”

“Be content? No. Oh no, I’ve had more than enough with being content. I have bled for this war now. I have shed blood and tears, and…” Harry stood from his seat, staring down at the man who watched him passively. “I have paid for my role in this war in spades. This war is mine. You can’t take it away from me. These prophecies of yours… You put so much stake into them! But I’ve earned my place in this, prophecy be damned. And I have earned your respect, Albus Dumbledore. I deserve it.”

Dumbledore nodded, sitting up as if awaking. “And you have it, Harry. Certainly, you should never doubt that. But you cannot know everything, my boy. I know it will mean nothing to you now, but you must trust me.”

Harry stared down at him, his teeth clenched, his shoulders tight, and after a long moment, he forced himself to relax. His eyes were still narrow, his mouth thin. He nodded slowly, eyes locked on Dumbledore. “You have us all fooled, haven’t you?”

“Harry?” Lupin asked in a low, cautious voice, but Harry ignored him, eyes still fixed on the Headmaster.

“Trust you, you tell me. Be content, you tell me. I’ve heard that before. You’d have me blind, chained and naked at your feet, if you could.” Harry swept a hand around the still, breathless room. “You’ve done it to us all, with your lemon sherbets and your grandfatherly smiles. You’re a knife so sharp, we can’t know we’re bleeding to death until it’s too late.” Harry shook his head. “I can’t trust you. I won’t. I will not go blindly, not for anyone, and not for you.”

“Harry, you’re upset, you don’t know what you’re – ”

“Remus,” Harry didn’t turn. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m awake now. I’m very awake,” Harry told him firmly and said quietly as he leaned over the desk, “I can see you now, Albus. I can see you clearly.”

He took a step backward and then turned, putting his back to Dumbledore. He looked at Snape, who stared at him with eyes open and considering. “Will you come with me, Severus? I’ve had more than enough for today.”

Snape nodded after a short moment of consideration. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

They left the room without a backwards glance, leaving Lupin to stare dumbly at the empty doorway for a long moment, until he finally closed his mouth and turned to stare at Dumbledore. The elderly man had his chin in his hands again, gazing at the doorway too. A very small smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all amazing. Thank you for all your support so far. Writing can be hard, but all your comments and kudos keep me going. I really appreciate it! <3 <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter took longer to finish than I thought it was going to take... Oops. :/ Thank you for all your patience!

Neville crouched, his fingers dug deep into black, fragrant earth, and he hummed to himself as he worked at transplanting a trio of Black-Eyed Susans. They blinked at him and one watched him with suspicion, but he just smiled at it and kept working. They’d be happier once they’d been transferred into the ground. More room to grow. He patted the earth and waved his wand over them to give the soil the proper saturation, and they blinked their dark eyes at him again in pleasure. He stood and scratched his cheek, and then brushed his hands off, still humming a song his mother had once sung to him. 

He could not remember her as she had been before she had been broken, but he knew the song. She often sang it to herself when he visited the hospital. She would sit, curled into a corner of her room, a pillow cradled in her arms, and she would sing the song, over and over. She might do it for hours at a time, with little notice of anything else. Sometimes he would sit by her and sing along and she would smile at him. The words were rarely comprehensible, but he knew the tune well.

The central flower, the suspicious one, turned her head and narrowed her eye, and Neville followed her gaze and found Draco leaning lightly against the side of the potting shed, arms crossed over his chest. The sun shone at his back, turning his hair to silver and making him look like a young prince. He looked smug, as if he knew precisely how he appeared, which, Neville assumed, he probably did.

He brushed his hands off again, collected the transplantation pots, and crossed over to the shed. He nodded to Draco as he replaced the pots on their shelf, then washed his hands in the large, mud-spattered sink, scrubbing grainy dirt from his fingernails. He glanced at Draco, who still leaned against the wall, only a foot away.

“Yes?”

Draco shifted, tilting his head against the side of the shed, pale eyes watching Neville. “You were right.”

Neville nodded and reached for a cloth to dry his hands. He took a breath before looking back at Draco, who watched him, unmoving, unnaturally calm for a boy known for pretentious posturing. Then again, Neville had his own reputation, and he understood the limits of it, which parts were true, which were feigned. Draco was a better actor than he. It was far easier to play the mouse than the snake.

“What’s coming?”

“Everything. We can’t prevent it, now. We don’t need a prophecy to tell us the inevitable.”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

Draco nodded, finally looking away. Following Draco’s gaze, Neville glanced across the long garden with its neat rows and colourful flowers, and he watched them sway in the faint breeze of early summer. The weather would turn sweltering soon, Neville knew, as midsummer finally took hold with a vengeance. But for now, it was only warm and pleasant. He wondered who his grandmother had found to work their own garden, whether his roses were being properly cared for, if the hydrangeas had wilted from neglect. 

He wanted go home, he thought suddenly, but not home as it was now. He wanted to go back in time, to _before,_ back to when he really had been the quiet, nervous boy on the sidelines and not… whatever he was now. He wanted to go back and tell the younger version of himself that the Headmaster wasn’t the fun kind of nutter as it turned out, wasn’t all sweets and colourful robes. He was the kind of nutter who told children they would be heroes and then threw them headfirst into the deep end of the pool. Neville dearly wanted to go back and unknow everything he now knew.

But it was impossible. He could not escape what he knew, what he had allowed himself to become and do. He would no doubt drown in his guilt eventually, but for the moment, he still had hopes that he might mend or at least temper the ruin Dumbledore had caused. 

He glanced at his newly planted flowers, their faces turned to the sun. Dim hopes for continuance. They might not live to see the summer’s end. There wasn’t much time left.

“There isn’t much time,” Draco said, turning his own face up to the sky, as if reading his mind. “The Mark hasn’t yet been called, but soon it will. They’ll move very soon.”

“And come here?”

“They’ll come to wherever Potter is. Voldemort doesn’t just want him – he needs him. If you thought he was obsessed before, you ought to see him now. They are tied to one another, and by more than simply the stolen blood. Neither can win, or lose, without the other.”

Neville turned to face Draco fully. They didn’t often meet in daylight, much less in the open, preferring instead to meet under the cover of darkness. Draco glittered like a finely cut diamond in the sun. “Are we going to lose him?”

Draco tipped his head back against the side of the shed. His throat was a long, pale column. “I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to survive without the other, not after the blood bond. Voldemort knows this – it’s why he wants to keep Harry shackled at his feet. A strong wizard might be able to survive the death of the other, a very strong wizard, but Harry… after being broken as he was… Harry has other ties still though, ties that might help ground him. We just have to hope they’re stronger than blood.”

Neville closed his eyes, trying not to think about just how important a blood tie was to Harry. “How much time do we have? Before… Before this is over?”

There was a long pause. The breeze tickled the sweat on his neck, making him shiver slightly. Neville didn’t expect an answer from Draco. He didn’t want an answer. What he wanted was for someone to tell him it would all be okay. He wanted Harry to live and to be happy, and perhaps, one day, to forgive him. He wanted to escape from under the heavy burden placed on him, and be allowed a moment to be young and to enjoy something, or even someone. He was just so tired of it all, of feigning, of knowing truths that others did not. He was so tired of being alone within his own lies.

Neville’s eyes sprung open as he felt a soft touch against his cheek. He open his eyes to see Draco close, eyes on his cheek, thumb brushing away flecks of dirt from his face, and then Draco noticed Neville watching him and his hand dropped away. “We don’t have long enough,” he replied, holding Neville’s pale eyes with his own.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes into darkness and he sucked in a sharp breath before he remembered where he was.

Snape’s room. Snape’s bed. Even after so many days, he still managed to forget. 

He lay still for a moment, listening, and to his left he heard Snape’s soft breath, the almost non-existent inhales and exhales as if he had trained himself to sleep unobtrusively. Harry turned over to face him, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the meagre amount of light which slid beneath the bedroom door. 

Snape looked peaceful as he slept, forehead smooth, lips slack. The man slept on his side, one hand pushed under the pillow, the other curled up, fingers against his throat. Harry watched him for a long while, wondering how the man managed to sleep so peacefully after everything that had happened to him.

Voldemort’s favourite.

Harry tried to picture Snape then. Barely twenty, arrogant, angry, naïve and already a master at his work, sought after by the man the world would soon fear to name. He could almost see him: swimming in rage and bitterness, satiated with his own self-worth, eager for the chance to prove himself. Tom Riddle had been in his prime. Tom would have taken to Snape immediately, seen the potential in him. Seen the worth. And Snape would have fed off that, bloating himself on the praise like a leech.

He watched as Snape took a sudden, deep breath, his pulse twitching in his throat. His hand stretched out, searching, and he sighed in his sleep as his fingertips touched Harry’s arm, just barely resting against skin. His feet tangled briefly with Harry’s before he settled back into deeper sleep, turning his face into the pillow. Harry smiled a little and brushed his own fingertips over his lover’s hand.

_“We all loved him back then. We loved him, feared him, were in awe of him. There was very little difference. I was different than the others and that was precisely why I was his favourite. I never feared him. Not then. Not yet.”_

Harry rolled over and slid from the bed, pulling his robe about himself as he slipped into the washroom. He closed the door behind him and wandlessly lit the overhead torches. He stood before the sink and stared at himself in the small mirror. 

His hair was darker, longer, curling chaotically in messy waves against his neck and yet still barely hiding the jagged scar across his brow. His skin was pale from sleep, pillow lines against his cheek, and he lifted one hand to trail across his throat. 

There was no sign of it anymore, nothing that eyes could detect, but he could still feel the collar, hot and smooth against his skin, reasserting its presence every time he swallowed, so much like a hand around his throat, possessive and demanding… Claiming him.

He looked back at himself, meeting his own eyes. 

Something about him had drawn Voldemort. It was more than the scar, more than the prophecy, more than causing the ruin of him. There had to be something more than that inadvertent bond, something more in him that called out to the man. There had to be a reason.

He clutched at the edge of the cold sink as the memory of Tom’s hand swept over him, stroking against his back and up into his hair, tangible to the point that goosebumps rose visibly across his skin. He stared at himself, anchoring himself on the sight of his own green eyes staring back, but as he stared, his eyes darkened and something oily and creeping and aware stared back at him. His breath caught in his throat and his fingers gripped tightly against the sink. Someone who wasn’t Harry Potter was in that mirror, in his eyes, staring back at him. 

His reflection’s mouth curled up into a harsh smirk.

He jerked backward and hit his shin against the bathtub, and he clenched his teeth into his lip to keep from crying out.

The door flew open and he flinched back from the shape in the doorway before he realised who it was, where he was. Snape stood in the dark doorway, his left arm clutched to his chest. His feet were bare.

“Severus,” Harry sighed in relief, but as he spoke, the man’s head jerked around to stare at him with wild, dark eyes. Harry froze and asked cautiously, “Severus?”

Snape stared at him in horror for a long moment, then something in his eyes clicked and he breathed, “Harry.”

Harry took a step forward and froze again when Snape flinched for a half-second, visibly forcing himself to relax.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Snape shook his head, but he clutched his arm to his chest, and Harry’s eyes widened as he met Snape’s eyes.

“You felt him too.”

Snape stared at him, mouth parting, hand clenching against his forearm. His face was paler than the white sheets on his bed.

Harry gestured to the mirror and Snape’s eyes followed the movement. “I was looking in the mirror. The image in the mirror – I could feel him watching me.”

Slowly, very slowly, Snape brought his arm down from his chest. He glanced down at it and then held it out for Harry to see. The mark flared a midnight black against Snape’s pale forearm, rimmed in vicious, red-scarred skin. The sight of it made Harry shiver all over. He wrapped his arms around himself. He felt suddenly freezing, as if he had been plunged into an icy bath. His teeth chattered together and every muscle in his body was tight and tense. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples.

“He’s coming,” Harry said between gritted teeth and he closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come back here. Of course he’d find me here. Where else would I be?” Harry shook his head back and forth, his fingers digging into his own skin. “He’ll take me back and I’ll be… I’ll just be gone.”

Harry startled as hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. His head lolled for a moment, but then he snapped up, staring at Snape who had taken the two large steps into the room to stand before him, eyes sparking with anger and possibly fear.

“Idiot boy,” he growled and Harry stared up at him. “Idiot boy, don’t you know what this means?” He tipped his arm, drawing Harry’s eyes down to it. Snape shook him again. “He’s coming for us both. This isn’t a warning. This is a promise. He’s claiming us.”

“No, he can’t have you,” Harry said, voice gaining strength. Harry had spent months protecting Snape within the dark confines of his mind, protecting him from this very eventuality. Voldemort had let Snape go, had let him go and had not come after him, not like this, and Harry was not going to let it happen now. Not now. Severus belonged to him, Harry thought wildly, and he grabbed Snape and pushed him back against the wall with a dull thud. Harry stepped forward into him, pressing himself against that hard, starved body. 

“He can’t have you,” he snarled, holding Snape’s startled eyes furiously. “You are _mine._ ” He glanced at the mirror, staring at his own reflection in contempt. “He’s mine. You lost him. And you lost me. You don’t get to have us back.” 

“Harry,” Snape pushed back against him and Harry shifted his glare, holding him firmly against the wall. Snape’s voice gentled. “Harry, if he comes to claim us, there will be little we can do. You know that as well as I.”

“To hell with that,” Harry returned, pressing himself harder into Snape, who shuddered slightly against him. “I can do it, Severus. I saw him. I saw his cracks. I can do it. I can beat him.”

“You…” Snape stared at him in confusion. “But you were blind. He blinded you.”

“I didn’t see him with my _eyes._ ” Harry rolled his eyes at that. “I did it like you taught me, with my mind. Like this.” 

Harry grasped the power flowing through him, such a tangible, wild, hungry thing, and he opened himself to it. It flooded his mind like a dammed river released, and his head swirled with the fullness of it. He opened his senses and looked at Snape, and he could see the shining, blue-green outline of power surrounding Snape, could see the threads of it running through him and connecting them together. His own power, a brilliant emerald green, braided itself with Snape’s energy, and Harry watched the edges of himself blur as the two powers flowed into one another. Snape jerked as if struck by lightning, his body taut as it arched in the small space between Harry and the wall.

Their joint power surged up through their bodies, sparking along every span of touching skin. Harry pressed forward into Snape, who fell back against the wall with a soft groan. Snape immediately shifted his stance, spreading his legs to straddle one of Harry’s. The loose tie of the robe fell open and it slipped down off of Harry’s shoulders and caught at his elbows, fanning down against the floor. Their magics danced along their skin like the Aurora Borealis, Harry’s emerald green and Snape’s ocean green, and the power thrummed in their blood, a pulsing, throbbing heat enmeshing them. 

Snape grasped Harry to him and arched himself forward, and he tugged Harry against him. Harry flowed forward, sliding against Snape’s clothed thigh as a wave crashes to shore. It felt as if they could never be close enough. Bodies were limited. Bodies were _wonderful._

Harry pressed himself down against Snape’s firm thigh, canting, his hands gripping against Snape’s arms, fingernails scratching furrows into skin. He lifted his head and their eyes locked. Snape yanked Harry tighter against himself, and they rocked into one another, power pulsing, building in sharp, needling sparks of bright colours behind their eyes, through their minds. The small room echoed with their sounds, and their fingers slipped and tightened against slick skin. Pressure built in Harry, in Severus, in their linked minds, in the single joined power they became. It swelled until their skin, their veins, their minds could not longer contain it and it broke, cascaded through them, heat and power exploding through them as it surged down their spines, and they cried out as the power climaxed through them. 

They collapsed against one another. Snape braced his back against the wall and held Harry against him, his arms tight against Harry’s back. Harry bent to press his forehead against Snape’s chest and he felt limp and battered and marvelous. He could hear the ragged breaths Snape pulled into his lungs, the racehorse pulse of his heartbeat. He pressed a sloppy kiss into the open neck of Snape’s shirt, and Snape’s arms tightened about him.

Harry lifted his head, moving as if through water, and they regarded each other for a long, breathless moment. Snape tilted his head back against the wall and Harry watched him swallow, watched him attempt to plaster a bland expression across his face, failing laughably as he tried desperately to grasp the remains of his shattered composure.

“Like that?” Snape said to the ceiling.

Harry shook his head, smiling, pressing his forehead to Snape’s chest again and laughing. “No, definitely not like that.” He pulled back and laughed again, shaking his head, and Snape’s lips twitched, then curled, and breath huffed from him in something that might almost have been an answering laugh.

“You see?” Harry demanded, clutching his arms again, just above the mark. “Can’t you see? He can’t have us. We don’t belong to him anymore.”

Snape shook his head, but he bent his head to rest his cheek against the younger man’s hair. “I hope you’re right, Harry. I truly do. He doesn’t take kindly to deserters.”

* * *

The tall windows of the infirmary rattled as yet another crash of thunder resounded through the castle. Rain-heavy winds crashed against the glass and the outside world resembled a grey-soaked watercolour painting. Ron sat up from his seat by Hermione’s bed and peered out at the storm. The day had been a rainy, dark day, and while the storm had only just begun, it didn’t seem likely to end soon.

He reached out to touch the cool glass of the window, but jerked his hand back as the doors to the infirmary swung open. He turned to look and gave the visitor a small smile.

“Hi, Harry.”

Harry smiled and crossed over to him, setting his hand on his friend’s shoulder as he gazed down at Hermione. Lightning lit up the room and cast strange shadows against the far walls.

“No change?”

Ron shook his head and thunder interrupted him as he opened his mouth to reply. He glared out at the storm. “No. But soon, I think. She’ll wake up soon.”

Harry nodded. He stared down at Hermione for a long moment and sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Ron held his breath, but Harry only looked up at him again and said, “Have you eaten, Ron?”

“Yeah, I ate…” He thought a moment, and then frowned. “Yesterday? I think.”

Harry sighed and stood, tugging his friend’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go get some food.”

Ron shook his head again. “No, I’m fine. I’m not hungry.” He set his hand back down, brushing Hermione’s hair from her temples. “I’ll eat later.”

“You need to eat something, Ron. Hermione’ll be steamed if she comes back to find you’ve fainted dead away from hunger.” 

Ron turned to glare at him over his shoulder, but Harry seemed immune to the look. His friend gave him a small smile and tilted his head toward the door to the infirmary.

“Come on. What if I find someone to sit with Hermione? You know Ginny would, in a heartbeat. Likely Neville would too.”

Ron sighed. He knew Harry wouldn’t leave him be, and frankly, now that Harry brought it up, he might just be a little hungry. He could eat something small and hopefully be back before she woke. He wouldn’t be gone long.

Not to mention that Harry had been captured and tortured by the Big Bad Evil for months and had only just returned. He really ought to be spending time with his friend, Ron thought with a stab of guilt.

“Ginny or Neville,” he agreed finally. It gave him some more time, unless either of them were waiting just outside the door. “If you can find them.”

Harry’s mouth turned up at the corner, a pleased curve, and he lifted his eyes to gaze blankly over Ron’s left shoulder. A strange moment passed, where Ron could almost feel something, a stirring in the air, a gentle buzz like electricity brushing against his face, and then Harry nodded and looked back down at him. “Ginny is on her way and she says Neville will join her once he’s through with Remus.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “How on earth… Harry, what was that?”

“I’ve been learning Legilimency for the past two years, Ron, and I’ve got the hang of it now.”

“But you… you can just…” Ron furrowed his brows. Legilimency wasn’t supposed to work that way, was it? Ron fumbled for words for a moment, and then something firm in his mind clicked into place and he stared at his friend, all other thoughts dropping away. “Harry, if you can do that… to anyone, anywhere…”

They both glanced down at Hermione, stretched out across the infirmary bed.

“Do you think – ?”

“Maybe,” Harry said at nearly the same moment, answering the question he didn’t need Ron to ask.

Outside, the wind howled as the storm grew overhead.

* * *

Snape waited until the boy was alone. The Weasley girl, Ginny, was somehow immune to his intimidation techniques as of late, and the werewolf had never been awed by it, having seen him at some of his lowest and most defenceless. He was, however, good at waiting out his prey, when the situation called for it.

Ginny left the professor’s lounge, and he hung back in the shadows until she had passed him by. Her expression was pinched and the very air about her was turbulent. There had been no raised voices from within the room, but something or someone had certainly earned her disapproval and they were no doubt regretting every choice they might have ever deigned to make in their time upon this earth.

She was followed shortly thereafter by the werewolf and Longbottom, who paused in the hallway and traded farewells and reminders of an upcoming encounter of their Aren’t-We-So-Secretive gathering. Neither of these three were professors and he hoped none had encroached upon his imported teas. It was bad enough when Sprout helped herself to his _Da Hong Pao_ without so much as a nod to the cost, but these three had not earned the right to so much as view his collection. It was there to provoke envy upon the informed, not to be heedlessly sampled by mere students.

The werewolf, as he had hoped, turned and left in the opposite direction than the one Ginny had taken. Longbottom stood still for a moment and watched as the man walked away, and then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed a hand over his face. He shook his head, turned, and followed after Ginny, walking past Snape completely unawares.

Perfect.

It took little effort to trail after the boy and make only enough noise to unnerve him – a muted foot step, the whispered swish of his robe against his trousers, a breath slightly louder than the quiet. The boy's shoulders rose, his arms tensed, his weight shifted lower, his hand sought and tightened on his pocketed wand. Snape's lips curled upward. Such return for so little effort.

Longbottom rounded a corner and Snape listened as the footsteps hesitated and then moved away from him before he rounded the corner himself.

He nearly collided with the boy, who waited around the turn, his wand at the ready. In the distance, the boy's shoes continued on their independent path down the corridor.

“Oh!” The boy immediately drew back and flattened himself against the stone wall, the whites of his eyes shining in the dim light. The grip on his wand did not loosen, nor did his hand waver, Snape noticed, but his face still paled to the ashen grey an early morning potions test could prompt.

Snape sneered, “Mister Longbottom, do you greet all professors in such a manner, or should I consider myself particularly noteworthy?

The wand dipped but did not drop completely, and the boy’s eyes were washed with a fierce rancor, fire drawn up from some hidden place. 

“You s-snuck up on me while Death Eaters and Merlin knows what else might be around every t-turn and, and…” He drew in a sharp breath and stuttered quiet as he took in his audience, his hand dropping down to his side.

“There are Death Eaters around every turn, Mr. Longbottom, or have you forgotten what I am?”

The boy lifted his gaze to look him in the eye. “I will never forget what you are,” he told Snape after a moment of silence.

Whatever words he might have had on his tongue shrivelled and died, and he swallowed them with distaste. He felt his lips pull tight, but he refrained from the impulse to take a hundred points from Gryffindor. It would weaken his position in this situation, and besides which, it was, unfortunately, summer. Any impact would be greatly lessened as a result.

“Mr. Longbottom, I was not sneaking up on you and I suggest that if you thought otherwise, your paranoia may be getting the better of you. I only wished to speak with you.”

“ _My_ paranoia,” the boy muttered, but stowed his wand and crossed his arms over his chest. Defensive position, good.

“Well, professor?” Longbottom said after only a few seconds of silence. “I am on my way somewhere. The infirmary. Harry asked me to.”

“Harry Potter is precisely why I have sought you out, Mr. Longbottom.” Snape drew himself up taller and took a step closer. It was less effective when the children grew up and became near to his own height, but he still had a few inches on Longbottom. The boy flinched back against the wall, but did not break eye contact. 

“You are a member of the same group as Draco and the werewolf, are you not? Albus’ secret little group. Tell me everything.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You need not play dumb, Longbottom. I am already well aware of your mental limitations.” The boy scowled at that. “Albus Dumbledore recruited you into his Inner Order, did he not?”

Longbottom shifted on his feet, “W-why would you think that?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You are not as circumspect as you think you are. Only moments ago, I overheard you confirm the time of the next meeting with Lupin, whom I know to be in this group.”

“Maybe it’s an entirely different meeting.”

“I am not an idiot, Longbottom. Do not speak to me as if I were. You are in this group. Lupin and Draco Malfoy are in this group. I have yet to determine the others, but I will, in time.” Snape shifted his weight and loomed a little closer to the boy. “The Inner Order has intentions that involve Harry Potter. I want to know what these are.”

A stillness overtook the boy, as though he had suffered a momentary petrification, and he said, in a new tone, “You’re trying to protect him.”

“That should hardly be new information, but yes, Mr. Longbottom, I certainly am trying to protect him, although I have done a shoddy job of it to this point. I have now a rather vested interest in Mr. Potter’s health and safety; thus, I need to know to what convoluted notion the Headmaster has most recently subscribed and ideally, how to circumvent it.”

“You don’t trust the Headmaster?” The boy tilted his head.

“Mr. Longbottom, I wouldn’t trust the Headmaster to extinguish a fire in his own beard, much less anything less dear to his actual person, if he felt it might satisfy some perceived grander purpose.”

Longbottom slid away from the wall, stepping firmly into Snape’s space. The boy suddenly seemed to take up twice the space he had only moments ago, and Snape had to fight the urge to take a step back.

“You’re also a member of the Inner Order. If you want to know the members and the mandate, you can join anytime.” 

“I have no desire to join a group before I am fully versed in its business. Not again.”

The boy rubbed at his forehead. “Neither do I.” He let out a heavy sigh and glanced around himself. “Okay, but not here, not in the hallway.”

Snape motioned toward an empty classroom and cast _Muffliato_ over the two of them after closing the door.

“There,” he said and fixed his eyes on the boy. “Now tell me everything.”


	15. Chapter 15

Harry moved closer to the bed and set his hand down against Hermione’s arm. He didn’t need Ron to know that it was really only Ginny he could manage to contact nonverbally over a distance for whatever reason, unless the morning’s interlude with Snape in the washroom counted, although that hadn’t precisely been communication, and it certainly hadn’t been from a long distance. 

At that thought, though, he wondered if he might actually be able to get Snape off from across the castle. Something to consider. Although Snape might not exactly approve, depending on where he was at the time. Or who he was with. He wondered if he might get Snape to agree to an experiment.

Suppressing a smile, he turned his focus back to the infirmary. Hermione lay still on the bed, cold to the touch. He closed his eyes as he thought of his friend, as he thought of the feel of her magic – knowledge and courage with an underlying scent of lilacs. She wasn’t near the body on the bed, that was clear immediately. The body was disturbingly empty. He cast his magic farther and farther, searching for the elusive feel of her magic, until he left Hogwarts completely, and, in fact, lost track of where he might be at all. It felt as if his body was but a memory, loosely tied to him by a spiderweb-thin filament that trailed behind him as though he were a kite. He had to be very careful. He could easily lose himself.

At the very moment when he knew he had gone too far and that he must turn back, he broke through a barrier of some kind, a barrier between… worlds, maybe, he wasn’t certain. It felt like passing through thick cobwebs, and on the other side, everything there was insubstantial, shifting and groundless. It felt like walking on the lake floor had, dangerous and unpredictable. He couldn’t stay there. This was not a place he was meant to be.

As he turned back, he thought he heard a voice, faintly saying his name, but the barrier slid closed behind him. The cord tying him to his body felt as though it were only barely tethering him to his world, and so, he left the strange barrier behind him and returned to his body. Although he hadn’t been gone long, the strangeness of a physical form was nauseating, heavy and encumbering, and he found himself vomiting nearly on Ron’s feet.

“I couldn’t find her,” he gasped.

Ron shuffled backward, away from the mess on the floor, and sat heavily on the edge of Hermione’s bed. “You tried your best.”

He nodded and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Despite the rancid taste on his tongue, he felt suddenly ravenous in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, not since the Dursleys and Dudley’s attempted diet. He cast a quick tooth cleaning spell at his mouth and another cleaning spell at the floor, and then said, “Come on, Ron. Lunch.”

“But Ginny…”

“Is here,” Harry finished as Ginny pushed into the infirmary and came straight toward them.

She stopped by their side and crossed her arms over her chest in a stubborn way that made Ron think unnervingly of his mother. “Finally getting him to go eat? About time. Don’t worry, Ron. I’ll keep a close eye on her.”

“Thank you.” He replied and allowed Harry to pull him from the room. “You can really just… just find someone and talk to them? With your mind? It’s possible?”

Harry smiled at him as the doors closed behind them, and he continued pulling his friend toward the Great Hall. “Welcome to the wonderful world of wizardry, Ron. Let me introduce you to robes and wands and something called magic.”

“Bugger off,” Ron pushed at him and pulled his arm free. “You _are_ snarky now. Little mini-Snape.”

Harry grinned. “Ah, but I thought you and he were chums now.”

Ron pulled a twisted face. “Me and him? Not likely. Now, you and him…” Ron’s lips turned up. “You’re rather close, now aren’t you?

“Rather,” Harry replied with a side glance.

“I’d say it’s a bit more than rather at this point.”

“You can’t make me blush, Ron.”

“And why not?”

Harry just shook his head and averted his eyes. “I don’t blush anymore.”

Ron stared at him a moment and then lowered his eyes to the floor. “Oh.”

Harry jostled his side and pulled his elbow, leading him down the wide staircase. “But Severus, now, he blushes.”

“Really?”

Harry pushed open the giant doors to the Great Hall and winked. “Oh yes. It’s quite fun, actually.”

“I bet. Uh,” Ron flicked his eyes at his friend. “No details though, right, mate? I don’t want to end up picturing… ugh, there it is. Mental picture.” He shuddered. “Now that is something I’d like to forget.”

“What?” Harry snickered. “What did you picture?”

“Oh no. I’m not saying. I don’t even want to think about it. Oh, bloody hell, there it is again. Harry, for the love of Merlin, I do _not_ want to be picturing Snape like that. Had to see enough of him while we were in Wales, don’t want to see more, thank you.” He shuddered again and sat down hard at the Gryffindor table. Immediately, a plate of sandwiches appeared before him and he grabbed one and took a large bite. 

Harry sat next to him and ignored the pop of other foods appearing before them as he reached for his own sandwich, toying with the crust. “While you were in Wales?”

“Mmph,” Ron agreed, mouth full. He reached for a glass of pumpkin juice and downed it before speaking. “Yeah, mate. While we were looking for you.”

“You looked for me?”

“In Wales, yeah. Didn’t find much, not really.” He collected a handful of cookies from a plate near his elbow and ate one while he continued, “There was a house near Aberystwyth that was a bit suspicious, or used to be, since it was one of the houses that You-Know-Who bought back twenty-five years ago, but it was empty for a good long while, since the last time. Bit suspicious for us ‘cause it’d been active lately, but the locals expect it was bought by someone else. It was all cleaned up and made pretty, gardens and the like. Not the kind of place you expect Death Eaters to be roosting in.” He grabbed for a second sandwich corner while he chewed on yet another cookie.

Harry paused as he picked at his sandwich, thinking of the man he had come to know. The feel of him, the smell of him, the sound of him. The feel of the breeze from the open windows. The sounds of the birds. Harry shivered sharply and pulled his robe closer about him. Voldemort, Tom, had been different than the last Harry had seen of him, the skeletal being, barely flesh and barely living at all. That new man had been alive and young, easy to tell in the sound of his voice, the beat of his heart and the touch of – But had he become so alive as to transform the world about him? Had he changed so drastically as to bring his environment to life as well?

Possible, Harry thought to himself. Very possible.

“Would you be able to find that house again?”

“Hmm?” Ron licked a pumpkin moustache from the dusting of ginger stubble over his upper lip and looked over at his friend. “The house? Yeah, might be able to. Probably. Why? Want to go throw rocks at it?”

Or burn it down to the ground, Harry thought and then felt a sudden sharp stab of guilt over the impulse. A voice in his mind, his own voice, accused, _Traitor._ He wrapped his arms around himself again and shivered, and he felt a dangerous and insistent impulse to kneel and beg for forgiveness.

“The house, it might be where I was.” His voice sounded dry and alien, even to his own ears.

“Eh?” Ron turned to stare at him. “Really? How do you know?”

“I don’t know, not for sure. It’s a feeling I have, though. A strong feeling,” Harry shivered again, violently, enough for Ron to take notice. He felt the cold stone under his knees, the warm air from windows above him, the chain slithering down his spine. He sat up sharply and pushed his hair back from his face. He pushed the impression down, back into the dark box, and he shoved the box further into the shadowed recesses of his mind. 

“Harry, mate, are you – ”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine.”

Ron hesitated and then took another slow bite of his sandwich, chewing it thoughtfully. “So…” he asked, changing the subject to one he was equally curious about. “You and Dumbledore?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry made a face and reached for a cookie of his own. Gingersnaps, he noted as he bit into it and his mouth burned slightly. “I suppose everyone wants to know about that.”

“I haven’t asked you until now.”

Harry smiled a quick acknowledgement and looked down again. “He… I don’t trust him anymore, Ron. He’s… it’s complicated, and… You still trust him, don’t you? And you should, I think, maybe. I can’t. He… his involvement with me, it’s too close to… I just…” He sighed at last and let all his half-formed words fade. “It’s complicated.”

“…Alright.”

Harry smiled bitterly, twisting his lips, and he nodded down to the food on the table. “Just eat, Ron.”

“Are you okay? Really?”

Harry looked at him and shrugged. He scratched his thumb nail against a knot in the wooden table. “Probably not? But eventually, right? Time heals all wounds, and all that.” 

But Ron clearly didn’t believe him, not for a second. He ate another cookie, chewed it for a moment, and then delved into another subject change. “What’s the Snapers like in bed?”

Harry laughed sharply and looked at him with sparkling eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t want details, but… still.”

“He’s… uh, he’s intense. I don’t know how to explain it to you in a way that isn’t going to make you jab a fork in your ear.” His lips upturned at the roll of Ron’s eyes, and he continued carefully. “The way he is when he’s making a potion, you know, the way he focuses on what he’s doing and doesn’t pay attention to anything else, how dedicated he is to it… That’s how he is.”

Ron lifted an eyebrow. “Well, congrats, mate. Sounds like a winner. Who knew.”

“Yes.”

“But?” Ron watched his friend’s expression.

“But what?” Harry returned and kept his eyes downcast.

“There’s something else. Something not so perfect.”

Harry hesitated and glanced around the nearly empty room once before frowning and shaking his head. “He… The way he looks at me sometimes. It’s as if he doesn’t completely trust me. It’s like he’s seeing… someone else.”

“Someone else?” Ron tipped his head. “Who else would he be seeing?”

Shrugging, Harry reached for another cookie and turned it over between his fingers. Sugar spun from the cookie, landing in a light cloud across the tabletop. Harry brushed it away and set the cookie down. “I don’t know. Someone he doesn’t trust. Almost like… someone he’s afraid of.”

“Someone like _him,_ ” Ron said and Harry didn’t need further clarification.

“Maybe. I don’t… Sometimes when I look in the mirror – ” Harry broke off and shook his head. “Sometimes I think I see what he sees.”

“Harry,” Ron began and sat forward, leaning toward his friend. “You aren’t Voldemort.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked twice before saying slowly, “Yes… I know.”

“No. No, listen to me. Even with that scar, and all your blood in his veins and his in yours, and with the Parseltongue and everything else you have in common, you’re still not him. You’ll never be him. You’re Harry Potter.” Ron fixed his eyes on his friend and stared at him as if his eyes could bore the words into Harry’s skull.

“I know who I am, Ron,” Harry shot back as he sent his friend a incredulous look, but Ron shook his head again.

“No, I mean…” Ron trailed off and sighed. “I mean, you love Snape. You love who he is, even if that’s, you know, a bit shirty. Voldemort didn’t love him. Might have told him so, might have even convinced him of it, but it wasn’t real. He’s not got it in him. And he doesn’t love you, Harry.”

Harry made a small sound, but Ron pushed forward, the words tumbling from his mouth in something like desperation.

“He doesn’t have it in him to love anyone back. He just takes from people until they’re all used up.” Ron shook his head. “He might have convinced you otherwise, he might have convinced you of all kinds of things, but you could never be him. You love people. You really love people. You’re everything he isn’t. Don’t doubt that.”

Harry stared down at his hands and swallowed around a heavy, choking feeling lodged in his throat. “Thank you,” he said quietly and Ron reached over and put his hand over Harry’s wrist, gripping once before moving away. 

“S’what friends are for.” Harry glanced up to see his friend pick another triangle of sandwich and take a decisive bite. “Remember, told you once before. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. Okay?”

Harry looked down at his hands again. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

* * *

Ginny tried not to look at Hermione’s body. It was unsettling, especially when she could see so clearly how empty it was. The slow inhales and exhales, the faint flicker of pulse – it was disturbing. She couldn’t say a word of that to her brother, of course. He was so determined to believe the best and she could understand that. As long as Hermione’s heart kept beating, as long as she breathed, it was hard to think of Hermione as gone, as _dead._ Ginny didn’t have anyone who meant as much to her as Hermione did to Ron, but she could imagine it. She had friends, after all. She had family. She could understand desperately clinging to hope.

She sat on a wooden chair with her back propped against the wall, and read her history of magic textbook. If you read between the lines, it was really rather interesting, she found, but that was another thing she couldn’t say to Ron. He’d think she’d gone mad.

“Hi,” came a hesitant voice and she looked up.

Neville stood at the foot of the bed, with a book bound in green leather beneath his arm. His eyes darted back and forth between Ginny and Hermione.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered and flushed as she sat up. “I got h-held up by Snape on my way to get my book.” 

Ginny shook her head in exasperation and said, “Neville, I have to hand it to you, you’re good, but you know I can see straight through it, right?”

He blinked and then, in the span of time between one second to the other, something in his face shifted. He stood straighter, held his head higher, and his eyes lost their uncertainty and gained something that looked remarkably like confidence. 

He shrugged. “It’s a habit,” he answered, and even his voice was stronger, deeper.

Ginny felt something deep within herself awaken and she swallowed thickly. It was strange to remember that she had gone to the Yule Ball with Neville, years ago. It felt like it had perhaps been a lifetime ago, rather than only two. She hadn’t been as strong then, hadn’t been able to see through his masquerade to what lay beneath. She had been on a date with shy, clumsy Neville, not… whoever this was. And suddenly, whoever he really was, was almost… hot.

She flushed a little. Neville was hot. That required some consideration, she realised and then immediately chided herself. Urgent flutters still beat in her stomach whenever she thought of how she had stood in Draco’s bedroom, had touched his chest and had met his eyes with her own. There was something there, something she wanted to pursue, if he’d let her, but, of course, Neville was suppressing those exact same – Well, he didn’t know that part yet, wasn’t letting himself consider it yet, but certainly, she wasn’t the only one with a secret interest in the bad boys. Precisely how tangled did she want to get that year?

“Have a seat,” she nodded to the second chair by Hermione’s bed, and he sank down into it with a sigh.

“I’d been planting all morning,” he replied to her unspoken question. “I’ve managed to twist something in my back.”

“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey has something around here for that.”

“Oh, no doubt,” he nodded and set his book down on his knee. “But it hurts for a good reason. I like it. It means I accomplished something today.”

Ginny tilted her head, wondering at the fluid change in him. “What are you reading?”

Neville glanced down at the book and, to her surprise, he coloured a little, pink spreading across his cheeks. “It’s, uh, it’s a potions book, actually.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “A _what?_ ”

He flushed a little more and then tipped the book to show her the spine, where gold letters spelled out the title. “Herb tinctures and infusions,” he explained. “It’s… well, it’s a combination of herbology and potions, and… I’m not actually that bad at potions anymore.” He said the last with an apologetic tone of voice.

Ginny grinned. “Really.”

“I hate Snape. I mean, I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s… you know, he’s okay and all. He’s tried his best to redeem himself, I suppose. But, Merlin, I don’t like him.” Neville shuddered. “I hate potions the way he teaches it. It sucks all the fun out of it. I don’t actually mind it when it’s about brewing herbs and useful things like that. But…” he shrugged again. “I’m supposed to be absolutely shit at pretty much everything. So…”

“How long has this been going on?”

His mouth twitched. “A few years. The Headmaster came to me in the summer before third year, told me he had a plan and he needed my help.” He shook his head. “ _My help._ All my life, to that point, I’d been… Well, I’d been a danger to myself and everyone around me. When I was young, people would tell my Gran that it might have been better if I’d been born a squib.” He turned the book over in his hands. “And then, over the summer between second and third year, I grew up a little. Late bloomer, I guess. And then Dumbledore came to visit me and said he needed my help.”

Neville shook his head again and ran his hand over the spine of the book. He set it down in his lap. “And now, I’m still supposed to be that same Neville, even if I’m not anymore.”

“Did you know what the Headmaster intended you to do? What he was going to do to Harry? Because I thought Harry was your _friend,_ Neville.”

“He _is_ my friend! And no! Of course I had no idea! I never would have – ” He sighed and hung his head. “Dumbledore told me I was joining a group that would help take down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He had me do… things. Missions. It wasn’t long before I knew I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore, but I couldn’t leave. He implied that, that if I did, if I said anything, he wouldn’t be able to protect me from the aurors. I… I don’t know if that was the truth or a threat, but it was enough.”

He shook his head and looked up at her. “I didn’t know anything about what he had planned for Harry. Neither did Draco or Hagrid. I’m not sure about Lupin or Moody. Dumbledore told us there was a prophecy that would be instrumental in taking down You-Know-Who, and that the prophecy called us to help.”

“Whose prophecy is it? Was it Trelawney again?”

He shook his head again. “No, I don’t think so. He never told us, only that it was a trusted source. It was earlier this year when he finally told us what the prophecy was and what he thought it meant. Hagrid broke the table. This was after Harry had… after he had, um… you know,” Neville flushed. “After he had… in the dungeons, you know?”

Ginny nodded.

“Right, well, it was after that. We knew it was happening, Draco told us, and Dumbledore told us he would take care of it, but…”

“I think we both know how much that’s worth.”

“Exactly,” Neville sighed. “He said it was all part of the plan. What plan, I don’t know. He has never told us what the plan is. He gives us missions or roles, but information? Not overly.” He sat back in his seat and opened the book in his lap, but his gaze was turned inward. “I don’t know what to do, Ginny. I don’t want to go to Azkaban or for my Gran to be in danger.”

She leaned over and set her hand down on his arm. An image flashed before her eyes, vibrant and tangible – in the Shrieking Shack with the smell of smoke and electricity all around, herself in a tight embrace with Neville, another warm hand on her shoulder – and then she shook it off. She squeezed his arm and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Hermione faltered a moment as she felt a tickle behind her neck. “Are we alone here?” She questioned as she turned to scan the surroundings behind her.

Sirius turned back and tipped his head in thought. He glanced around and finally shrugged. “Donno. Maybe. Maybe not. You’re the first person I’ve seen, but… We’re lost. Other people must be lost too, right?”

She stared back at the shifting landscape. “I thought I heard…” She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think we’re alone here at all.”

“Probably not. Best not to try to find them, though, right? Who knows who they are? Could be lost Death Eaters or lost man-eating tigers. Could be anything.”

His warning fell on deaf ears. The hair on her neck stood up. Someone was nearby. Someone was looking for… Looking for someone, anyhow. She turned in a circle and stared into an area where the mist swirled pink and yellow, like a blossoming bruise. As she stared into it and as goosebumps rose across her skin, two dark spots emerged, coalescing into human shapes. Behind her, Sirius uttered a low swear, and he tugged on her sleeve, but she shook him off. She knew these two. Maybe.

The dark shapes came closer, like lost shadows looking for solid ground, and just before they were too close – dark, faceless shadows, so close – just then, she knew them. The darkness fell off them like cast-off shrouds, and they blinked at her.

“Do we know you?”

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, and Hermione laughed and shook her head. “No, no, you don’t. But I know your son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to work at my full-time job after some time off from it, which is why things have been a bit slower, but not to worry! I love writing, so this story will still be getting as much of my attention as I can manage to give it. :)
> 
> Thanks again for all your kudos and comments, and hello to anyone new! I hope you're enjoying things so far. You are all lovely. <3


	16. Chapter 16

Draco fed the owl a treat absentmindedly the following morning as he glanced over the short linen-coloured letter he’d received, and the dark brown hawk owl nipped his finger sharply and left in a swirl of feathers, disappearing out the partially ajar window into the deepening evening. The letter had been tied to the owl with a short length of black ribbon, and Draco slid the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger as he considered his next move.

The war was called.

He was glad he had managed to avoid receiving the Black Mark, claiming he could never manage to hide something so blatant from the all-seeing eyes of Dumbledore, and his father, the trusting, dangerous fool had agreed. If he had received it, it would now be blazing dark enough and hot enough to singe the fabric of his shirt, and it would certainly not be anything he could hope to hide either from others or from himself. He wondered how Professor Snape was coping with the call. He wondered if Harry could feel it. He was frankly surprised the world couldn’t feel it, though, if asked in all honesty, he would have to admit that he couldn’t feel the change himself. Had his father not seen fit to send him that small note, he might never have known. 

He contemplated the ribbon again. Thick, smooth, cool against his skin. He wove it between his fingers, across his palm, around his wrist, and he shivered once and only once before he held it over the single beeswax candle burning on his desk. He dropped it as it ignited in black, spiderweb flames that tracked over the surface of his desk, igniting the letter in its path, leaving the wood completely unmarked.

Draco sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Trusting, dangerous fool. Lucius Malfoy trusted no one save his son and that had always worked to Draco’s advantage, but the ribbon… Perhaps he had only wanted to guard the contents of the note from eyes other than his, but his father had never bothered with such precautions before. He had always trusted Draco to destroy any and all evidence, and Draco had always done so, committing the information to memory rather than keeping it on parchment. Lucius trusted few. Draco, playing both sides, trusted fewer. He did not trust his father, but he couldn’t quite believe that the man had sent him a cursed ribbon, one cursed with Circe-knew-what. Cursed ribbons were dangerous: they choked, they bound, they tightened into irreversible knots. They killed. His father would never try to kill him.

So who would? Who doubted him? Who was close enough to his father to plant a cursed ribbon and escape notice?

He placed the questions on the edge of his mind and brushed ash from his hands as he stood and left his bedroom, descending the few steps to the Slytherin common room. Crabbe and Goyle sat on the floor by the large fire, playing exploding snap, talking, smiling, worry-free, and for a moment, Draco hung back and watched them. They were far too easy to manipulate, but far too loyal to be disregarded. These two, he almost trusted, simply because they would never turn against him. They followed him with the sweet simplicity of a pet’s mind, and perhaps it was wrong to have taken advantage of it, but if he hadn’t, someone else would have, and someone else would have been quite a bit more dangerous than he was. Turned by loyalty to someone like his father, for instance, Crabbe and Goyle would have teeth far sharper.

It was impossible to believe they could be dangerous, watching them playing cards, laughing at each other’s blunders and jokes. Draco took a breath, released it slowly, and then continued down the stairs.

“Come along then.”

The two young men tossed down their cards and scrabbled to their feet. “What are we doing today?” Goyle asked, tilting his head eagerly. “We’ve been right bored.”

Draco spared a narrow smile. “I would imagine. I have letters to send off.”

“To the owlry, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Where else, you daft bastard? To the kitchens? Honestly.” 

Goyle elbowed Crabbe mockingly, and Draco ignored them, walking to the table where lay spare quills and rolls of parchment. He capped and pocketed a small pot of ink, one emerald pheasant quill, and two rolls of parchment, and narrowed his eyes at the two young men. “Well? Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” He spun on his heels and out through the door, into the dim halls of the dungeons, and he heard the scampering steps of his followers behind him.

“Can we go to the Great Hall afterwards? I’m half starved.”

Draco sighed and kept walking.

They scaled the steps to the owlry and Draco left the two lounging back against the entrance, in one sense to have them keep watch for others, but in another to keep them out of sight and to let him write in peace and solitude.

He found an owl he’d grown rather fond of, a large, male great grey owl, who had a silent and secretive temperament, much like his own. Its beak was sharp enough to pass among Voldemort’s followers, but its mind was sharp enough to think for itself. It cried out in greeting as he scaled the ladders and it sailed down from its roost to perch by him, nipping his sleeve affectionately.

“Hello, friend,” Draco passed it a small bit of cracker, which it crunched gratefully. “I have something important for you today.”

The owl rattled out a low noise, barely audible, and Draco smiled, petting it gently. “Give me a moment, and you can be off.”

He retrieved the supplies from his pocket and bent to the first letter, sketching it quickly and efficiently before starting on the second. The second, he paused over, and it was only when the owl hooted a soft prompt that he continued. He glanced over it, feeling uncertain about the entire thing, and he considered beginning again. He scanned over the note, and then again, and sighed and rolled it neatly, just as he did the first. He tied the first with a red ribbon and the second with green.

“This is important. Very important. My life and very soul rests on it. Do not take this lightly,” he warned and the owl hooted indignantly and ruffled itself, doubling in size. “Don’t start that. I’d rather survive the day and I assume you would as well.

The owl settled itself, dipping its head meekly against Draco’s hand. He scratched it lightly behind the ears, and then held up the note tied in green. “This is for my father. And I suggest you don’t stay around after the delivery. He does have a tendency to shoot the messenger.”

The owl ruffled itself again and nudged his hand. Draco smiled and scratched it again, passing it yet another bit of cracker. He gave the owl one last treat before he stepped back and nodded. “Off you go then.”

In a swirl of feathers, the owl leapt into the air, and with a low, almost mournful sound, it disappeared out a tall window.

Draco turned his attention to the other owls and he cast a critical eye over them. One, a fairly small creature, hopped closer to him and cocked its head to the side as it sidled even closer.

“Yes, well, fine, if you’re eager for it.” The owl held out a tiny leg and Draco tied the red ribboned note to it. “You haven’t far to go with this one. Take it up to Headmaster Dumbledore, but be sure to catch him alone, understand?”

The tiny owl hopped twice and bopped itself against his arm. Draco fed it a small bit of cracker and shooed it off. It flew a tight circle around his head before it took off out the window.

Draco made his way back down to his followers, and they broke off their conversation, turning to look at him expectantly. Goyle looked at him and then asked rebelliously and unexpectedly, “What’s happening?”

Draco eyed him. He didn’t care for the unexpected from these two, but the question deserved answering nonetheless. They were involved, after all. “The war has been called. Voldemort will strike.”

“Here?” Crabbe asked.

He nodded. “And soon. Very soon. We must prepare.”

Goyle glanced at Crabbe and then around himself, and finally, he looked at Draco and asked, “Which side are we on?”

Draco startled, staring at him, but he didn’t have to answer. Crabbe nudged his friend and replied, “Draco’s, of course.” He looked back at the pale-haired young man. “Right?”

Draco nodded at the display of unexpected insight and loyalty. “Yes,” his voice rasped in his throat and he cleared it. “Right.”

* * *

Neville nodded to Lupin as he took his seat at the table and he glanced across at Draco’s empty seat. It was not unusual for it to remain empty for the meetings, especially if he was away from the castle, although Neville knew well that Draco was not absent. He brushed his knuckles against his cheek and the phantom of a fleeting touch.

Moody harrumphed as he fell into his seat and took a deep drink from his flask. “Interminable meetings, these. Are we on again about Snape and his refusal to join us? Don’t think we need him, really. Emotions are best kept far from battle.”

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. “Severus Snape, as I have explained numerous times, has his part to play in this, and that part is not insignificant. Do not dismiss him.” He carded his fingers through his beard for a thoughtful moment. “Harry’s success does not depend on his connection to us here in this circle, although we all have our parts to play, certainly. It is his connection to Voldemort that matters most of all, and the role Severus plays exists in tandem with that connection. Severus’s story is not mine to tell, but suffice it to say that it will only encourage Harry to deepen his connection to Voldemort – which exists, quite strongly, from what I have seen.”

“Then Harry loves ‘im?” Hagrid asked in a quiet voice and Neville looked up at him and met his sad gaze.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “He may fight against it, but yes, the connection, the bond, it exists. We shall yet see this prophecy realised. Our task now is to keep the knowledge, and to protect and guide Harry until the time comes for him to act.”

“Then Severus would be a useful member to sit with us, wouldn’t he?” Lupin asked, sitting back in his chair until the wood creaked mournfully. “If Harry doesn’t trust us any longer… He obviously trusts him.”

“Harry doesn’t trust us,” Hagrid murmured in a rumble like distant thunder.

“Harry does not trust me,” Dumbledore corrected. “He is perhaps less fond of Remus at the moment, but that shall pass. The rest of you, if you manage to keep secret your involvement, should be fine.”

Moody sniffed and took a short draught from his flask. “Little good that serves me. I haven’t had more than five words from the boy. It is hardly my fault that he trusted my impostor and was in turn betrayed.”

“You almost sound bitter, Moody,” Lupin smirked.

“Bitter? Ha! That’s rich. My saviour, he may be, but my friend, he is not. I leave such business to the rest of you.”

Dumbledore held up his hand and stilled the voices in the room, and Draco choose that moment to appear in the doorway. He eyed them with a slitted gaze as he paused in the entrance, expertly drawing attention, before he continued wordlessly into the room to take his place between Dumbledore and Neville. 

“Thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore began until Draco nodded wordlessly toward the doorway once again.

Neville glanced back at the doorway to find yet another shadow lurking in the darkness. It lingered short of view for a moment before it moved into the flickering candlelight and coalesced into the shape of Severus Snape, who gazed at them for a silent moment. Dark hollows rested under his eyes, which he lowered for a moment before he took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He settled himself into the sole empty seat remaining, which put him between Moody and Dumbledore. Neville narrowed his eyes at him.

Snape folded his hands into his lap and took a steadying his breath, before he finally lifted his eyes and said, “I have come.”

“Why?” Lupin asked in an equally quiet voice, and Snape closed his eyes and swallowed deep in his throat.

“Because I cannot protect him from what I do not know.”

“Harry won’t like this much, not much at all,” Hagrid said gruffly, shaking his head.

Snape’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “No, he certainly will not.”

“He won’t like any of us much, not when this is over,” Neville said and folded his own hands tightly beneath the table. “But I’d rather he live to hate me. Harry has to survive this.”

‘Yes,” Snape replied and opened his eyes once more. He gazed across the table at Neville, who carefully lowered his eyes. “That is why I have come. Harry must live. I would give my life for that.”

Lupin nodded and seconded, “As would we all.” His amber eyes gazed across the table at Snape, his expression considering. 

“I thought that the point of this particular circle was to ensure the death of Voldemort, not necessarily to ensure the survival of Harry.”

“It is,” Dumbledore answered, chin resting in his hands. “Our primary task is to see to the end of Voldemort, once and for all, as per the prophecy. That is unquestioned. Our secondary task, however, is to see to the health and happiness of our Harry, which now includes you, Severus. That works quite propitiously for you.”

Neville’s eyes slid sideways to meet Draco’s briefly. Health and happiness. Of course.

“That is not my concern,” Snape replied. “I don’t care for my own survival, Albus.”

“No,” Dumbledore nodded, watching him. “But Harry does, as does Voldemort, and they are both my concerns. And that makes you, and has always made you, my concern as well.”

Snape paused and lowered his eyes to his clenched hands. “Your concern for me, your protection of me – that has been because of my connection with either Tom Riddle or Harry Potter.” He did not phrase it as a question. His voice was very tight.

The room was silent as Dumbledore gazed over the rims of his glasses and nodded. “Yes.”

Snape’s lips turned up for a quick, bitter moment. “Very well.” He nodded and lifted his eyes toward Dumbledore. “Very well. What do I need to know?”

* * *

Ron sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed again, fingers twined between hers, hand sweeping tendrils of hair from his forehead. Her breathing was even and calm. She could be sleeping were it not for her temperature. Her eyes didn’t flicker in dream, and she didn’t breathe a single breath deeper or shallower than any other. She could be dead were it not for the simple fact that she breathed at all.

He knew that he would eventually have to face the truth. Hermione was gone.

He wasn’t willing to let go yet.

It was too easy to say he loved her. It was too easy to say he needed her. They were young, very young, and he knew it. Too young to commit themselves for life. He had heard it before, and he had agreed. He loved Hermione, and he liked her too. He liked being near her. He hated being apart. And he had known that it was too soon to feel so strongly about her. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that she felt the same. They had fun together, they liked each other, and to a point, they understood each other. But did he think she loved him the way he loved her? No, not hardly. He would marry her in a second, spend the rest of his life with her, do his utmost to make her happy, but as much as that was his dream, he was just as certain it wasn’t hers. She had always had far bigger dreams than him.

He had come back to her, he would always come back to her, but she was gone. She wouldn’t come back. He had to give up. He had to let go. He knew it. He did.

Her hand twitched in his.

He froze, stiller than Hermione had been the past few days. His breath stopped in his throat and he had to force the word from his mouth.

“Hermione?”

She was still again, still and calm, as if nothing had happened.

He sat back and her hand slipped from his. His spine tensed as fingers of grasping uncertainty crawled up his back, and then something he couldn’t possibly explain washed over him. It was a creeping, oily feeling, like cold, wet leaves dragging against his skin, and he pushed himself back from the bed and sent the chair crashing back against the floor. 

He looked up at the window in time to see a bright flash of sickly green light fill the sky and a half second later, he heard the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the cliffhangers lately (except, no, I'm not at all sorry). And sorry for how short this chapter is! The next will be longer, I promise.
> 
> And thank you for all your kudos and comments. Seriously, any comment is amazing to me. I especially love all your theories about what's going to happen! I cannot keep a secret to save my life, so it's extremely difficult not to confirm/deny the speculations. :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This took a little longer than I thought it would, but it's done. By Merlin's saggy pants, it's done. I've even got two more chapters mostly finished and off to my betas, so hopefully you all won't have to wait another 3 months for the next post. Fingers crossed. (Depression and writer's block are a piss-poor combination, by the way.)
> 
> This chapter is [almost] exclusively Harry/Snape, as a reward for your patience and for sticking around through my impromptu hiatus. I hope you darling people like it!
> 
> Happy New Year!

Snape’s bedroom had no windows, unlike Harry’s own room which had windows spelled with the same sort of magic given to the ceiling in the Great Hall. They showed a view of the sky, as if he were still in the tower, and in his first months in Snape’s quarters, they had been a huge relief from the isolating darkness and the strange tension between Snape and himself.

Now, though, Harry greatly prefered Snape’s bedroom. It was warm from the fireplace, and the mattress was the most comfortable thing he’d ever experienced. The sheets were soft and thick and the blankets were heavy and warm. He’d never have guessed that Snape was such a hedonistic sleeper.

He remembered when he was twelve and he and the others from his dormitory had stayed up far too late into the night. He and Ron had nearly been caught by Snape as they snuck back up to the tower, under the cover of his cloak of invisibility, and they had laughed about it and speculated if Snape ever actually slept. Seamus had suggested that maybe Snape was a vampire, that he slept in a coffin, while Dean said that he probably just turned into a bat and slept hanging upside down from the ceiling in the potions room. Ron had bet that Snape slept on a bed of rusty nails and that was why he was always so cranky. Neville thought Snape probably never slept, that his meanness powered him through the day.

When Harry was fourteen, he overheard two seventh year girls from Hufflepuff speculating about Snape’s sexuality, which was so startling a thing that he had stopped dead around the corner from them and listened with a terrified sort of fascination. One of them, a girl with long black hair, had sworn that Snape must be a “huge dom” because “just look at him”, and the other had giggled and said that she’d let him do a thing or two to her with his wand.

It had been a few months later before he learned what a “huge dom” meant (he had assumed it meant something to do with the size of his cock?), but the entire conversation had stayed fixed in his mind ever since. Snape ordering someone about was not out of character for him and Harry could easily imagine it happening in the bedroom. He’d only had a vague sort of understanding about what happened during sex, based on the few wizarding magazines Ron had borrowed from his brothers, but there had been one magazine with an article about bdsm with pictures of wizards with whips, witches in lace-up boots. It became a recurring fantasy of his – detention in the potions room, Snape ordering him about. The idea had grown as he had grown, but he had always kept the idea of Snape as a _huge dom_ stuck in his mind. He’d never considered anything else.

That idea had influenced their first month together, as Harry had assumed that he would always be the one on his back, on his belly, bent over the table. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy it, that it didn’t feel good, because it definitely did, but he had spent months on his back and belly and sometimes he couldn’t manage to push all the memories down far enough and they spilled out everywhere, infecting everything with their poison.

For the first few days of his return, they had awoken entwined, their limbs tangled and their bodies gripped with a hunger for one another. It had been overwhelming and unbelievable and exhausting. But there was an edge to it as sometimes Harry couldn’t manage to contain his crazy and a harmless touch to his back or through his hair would remind him of things he tried to forget and he would lash out at Snape. Sometimes his magic would swell up within him and he’d startle to realise he had flung Snape against the wall, once suspending him four feet above the floor, pinned to the wall as one might pin a butterfly. 

Every time he would apologize frantically, ashamed and aghast at himself, and Snape would reassure him that no, it was understandable, that it would get better with time, that he wasn’t hurt.

And so it had been one morning. 

Harry had woken up to find Snape spooned behind him, his hands stroking down his side and over his chest and belly, and Harry realised he was rocking back into the hard length of Snape’s cock which was pressed firmly against the crease of his thigh. Snape pressed gentle kisses against the nape of his neck, behind his ear. Harry was already gasping when he awoke, his own cock more than half-hard and willing, but then Snape gripped his fingers over into the dip of Harry’s pelvis, holding him still as he rocked forward, and suddenly, Snape’s warm, wonderful bedroom dissolved around him and Harry was tangled, not in the warm blankets, but in that thick robe on that hard, cold floor and someone he couldn’t see was holding him steady, pushing his face down into the floor until his mouth and nose were buried in fabric and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t manage to fill his lungs. 

He gasped around the sharpness in his chest, his lungs clenched tight, his heart beating madly against his ribs, and he fought for freedom. He pushed and kicked and bit down hard on a hand that tried to restrain him. His legs wheeled against the ground and he fell backward onto the floor, off… Off the bed.

Snape’s bed. Snape’s room.

“Fuck,” he said and pushed his sweaty hair off his face as he sat up and peered over the edge of the bed.

Snape cradled his right hand in his left. The blankets were a disaster and he had a clear bruise forming on his jaw.

“Shit,” Harry said and crawled back up onto the bed. He reached out hesitantly and didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed when Snape didn’t flinch from him. He had bit deeply into the crook of Snape’s thumb. It was bleeding steadily, dripping down onto the sheets, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he had broken bones. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”

Snape shook his head and gestured toward the bedside table. “If you can reach my wand, I can fix this easily.”

Harry scrambled for the wand and handed it over. Snape took it with his left hand, adjusting it into the unfamiliar grip, and cast _episkey_ and _ferula_ over his right hand. The skin knit itself back together and the odd, painful slant to his knuckles straightened. He flexed his hand several times and transferred the wand from one hand to the other. He flicked the wand once, sending blue sparks into air, and then he nodded.

“There, no harm done.”

“No harm – Jesus, Snape, would you please just get angry at me?” He reached out to touch gentle fingers against the bruise forming on Snape’s jaw and Snape closed his eyes and tilted his head, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Harry’s hand. Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest as he dragged his thumb gently across the swollen skin. “You should get angry at me. I hurt you.”

“It’s hardly the worst I’ve endured, and I know I was not the intended recipient of your responses.” Snape opened his eyes and looked at him. “It’s difficult to know what will prompt these memories. May I ask what elicited this one?”

Harry pulled back and sank his head into his hands. “Oh, I think it’s pretty obvious what prompted it.” His words were muffled against his hands. “I’m crazy. I can’t even give you what you want without losing it.”

“What I want?” Snape repeated. “What is it exactly that you think I want?”

A humourless laugh escaped him and Harry pulled his hands away to wipe his nose against his wrist. “What do you think?”

“I think I asked you a question.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Sex. Obviously.” He gestured between them, flinging his hand back and forth. “Me. You want me.”

“Yes. I do.” Snape returned slowly and adjusted the blankets over himself. “But not if the feeling is not returned.”

Harry rubbed his forehead and sighed. Behind him, a log popped on the fire and they both flinched.

“That’s not… It is returned. I do, I do want you. But sometimes it’s… Sometimes it’s hard to, to just… Sometimes it’s hard to – ” He took a deep breath and forced it out, as if he could push the words out with the same momentum. “Fuck. Sometimes it’s hard to do what… what happened before. To have you do what happened to me before.”

“Penetrate you?”

Snape’s voice was quiet and cautious and Harry almost smiled down at his knees. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t figure out what was funny.

“Yeah, um. Yeah. That.”

“I thought you wanted that.”

Harry laughed now. He couldn’t help himself. “I _did._ I do, even, just… Not today, I guess. And not… I mean, why is it always me? I know I’m – I’m broken in, but…”

The blankets rustled as Snape slid closer toward him, although he kept a few inches of free space between their knees. 

“Harry, if you wanted to penetrate me, you needed only say. I’m…” Snape’s voice slid to silence and Harry turned up his chin to meet his eyes, but Snape was looking away, a pink flush staining his cheeks. “I, ah, I would prefer that, actually.”

“Wait, what?”

Snape glanced at him and then quickly turned his eyes up toward the ceiling. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly. The flush along his cheeks had spread down his neck. Harry watched it as it spread down his chest and saw that Snape’s cock was twitching upward from where it had hid beneath the sheets, and Harry blinked and looked back up at him.

“You want me to fuck you.”

Snape shuddered.

“You _like_ it. You like it a lot.”

“Yes.”

“You _prefer_ it.”

Snape nodded, his eyes still closed firmly, his hands clenching in the sheets.

Harry felt a smile overtake his face, pulling at his lips, stretching his cheeks, until he thought he might just glow from it. He reached out again and grasped Snape’s forearm and gave it a small shake. Snape opened his eyes and stared for a moment as Harry grinned at him.

“Brilliant.”

And so apparently talking was something they should do more often because now, Harry was the one who got to be the _huge dom_ in their relationship. And he was amazed as how much of a turn-on it was to slick up his fingers and tease them against Snape's rim and watch the man fuck himself back onto them. Harry could do it for hours, _had_ done it for hours once, a memorable night when he'd fucked Snape in the bath and then taken him to bed and fingered him and rubbed off against him until Snape had eventually gotten hard again. And then he'd climbed up and fucked himself on Snape's cock until he'd come once again, until Snape was liberally coated in his spunk, and then held onto the headboard as Snape fucked up into him like house points were on the line. 

They'd both slept well that night. No nightmares. A far better remedy than Dreamless Sleep. Not that Harry intended to let Madam Pomfrey know that.

Sometimes, though, Harry would lash out with words and these moments were impossibly worse. It was as if the words came from someone else, fed into him as though he were a ventriloquist’s dummy, truly terrible words filled with anger and hatred, accusing Snape of things Harry never considered during more lucid moments.

One such night, they had lain their sweaty twist of bodies in a pleasant, unhurried lassitude. It had rained the day before and Harry could smell it from the stone, and the bed smelled of the two of them and of woodsmoke and of herbs. Snape’s chest rose and fell beneath his head, his heartbeat loud and fast. Snape’s hand carded gently through Harry’s hair, pushing a sweaty strand away from his cheek, and he whispered something soft and, Harry thought, implausible against his crown. 

And Harry was suddenly furious at Snape, so angry it filled him until he could taste the sharpness of it on his tongue. He wanted nothing more than to take his clenched fists and quiet Snape’s traitorous mouth, so filled with lies and promises he would never keep, the same lies and promises that Voldemort had given to Harry, promises Harry was supposed to believe because he was young and stupid and gullible. He didn’t, he didn’t use his fists, he held himself back, but his mouth was filled with words that spilled out everywhere, pinging off the stone walls like bullets.

“You and Voldemort have so much in common, don’t you?” He’d said and whatever dark part of him spoke had rejoiced as Snape froze under him. “He told you that too, didn’t he? He whispered it to you in the dark, didn’t he, like he meant it? And you believed him, because you were an _idiot,_ a _child,_ a stupid, stupid child, and you think I’m as stupid as you were?”

He wrenched himself out from Snape’s arms and the words were sharp as broken glass against his tongue.

“You’re exactly the same as he is! Death Eaters _hate_. They don’t fucking _love_ anyone.”

He’d pushed off the bed and stormed out, casting a wordless _accio_ at his clothing, but not before seeing that Snape’s face had gone as pale as bone. He went to the Quidditch pitch and found a broom and flew, higher than he should, faster than he should, over the Forbidden Forest, farther than they were allowed to fly, until his muscles screamed and his body sagged over the handle of the broom. He returned to Hogwarts and flew up to the astronomy tower. He dropped his broom and sunk down against a wall, where he spent an hour with his face in his hands, as he realised that the anger he’d felt, the words he’d said now felt alien to him. He couldn’t recognize himself in them to be so hurtful and cruel to someone who… to someone who cared about him. He was a mess. He ruined everything good.

A small, high-pitched chime sounded near him and he looked up in time to see a small, green pixie disappear.

“Here you are,” Snape said softly and Harry flinched. He couldn’t bring himself to look up and meet the man’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean it,” Harry whispered. “I didn’t – ”

“I know.”

Snape pulled him up into a tight embrace, folding him into the dark warmth of his robes, and Harry clutched at him and whispered sharp pleas. _Don’t go, don’t leave me, please._ Snape hushed him and told him it was all forgotten. They went back down to the dungeons, to Snape’s cozy quarters and his still-warm bed, and Snape held him as he cried until he eventually slipped into sleep. And it was as if it was forgotten – Snape never brought it up, never seemed to hold it against him – but Harry didn’t forget. Every word he said, every spell he flung, it wedged between them until all that was left was a cold empty bit of mattress they couldn’t cross.

And so it had gone - the cold space between them growing larger despite their best efforts.

Harry’s dreams had been dark and fiery lately, real enough to shake him. That night, he had stood in what might be a field, the scent of smoke and ash in the air, and Voldemort stood near him and spoke words Harry could not remember, although he could remember the feel of the man’s low voice flowing around him like silk against his skin. Nagini slid between his ankles and bit at his heels, and when he looked down he found that he was standing barefoot on black and white marble tiles rather than the expected grass. The large room’s white walls rose up before him. They were ablaze, flames licking toward the high ceiling. Behind him, tall windows cracked noisily against the heat of the room, although he could not feel it. He could taste fruit juices on his tongue, mixed with the scent of ash and smoke.

He found he could no longer move, frozen still as though in a body-bind. There were shouts behind him and thunderous roars from above, as though from great beasts, perhaps dragons. Voldemort stood before him still, and his mouth moved with speech, but Harry could no longer hear his words. Harry felt caught behind an invisible wall where Voldemort and the fire could not touch him. The walls, once white, then black with ash, were now a misty sort of blue and purple and pink. Above him, the ceiling or sky was the same – a swirl of pale colours as though he were in a great jar of water within which some artist had rinsed their paint brushes. The ground beneath him became diaphanous and the air took on a strong scent of ozone.

Voldemort, mouth still moving in silent words, was translucent now, his skin as thin as tissue, his muscles and veins pale, his bones stark white. Harry could see the hinges of his jaw move, could see the dark hollows behind the crystal marbles of his eyes, could see the twisted mass of brain, gelatinous within the sheerness of his skull.

He could feel the heat of the fire now at his back, although he still floated within the swirl of colour. He could hear Severus behind him yelling a warning of some kind, although the words were lost to him. His body no longer felt like his own and he could not turn to see – his muscles ignored any thought of motion. The flames touched him and he could smell his own flesh begin to burn. The fire roared around Harry to Voldemort, who screamed soundlessly as the flames twisted about his translucent body. As Harry watched, Voldemort’s skin sizzled and sloughed from him in great, black chunks. His bones blackened and snapped, and yet still, the jaw moved in silent screams. Harry’s hair was burning now, his glasses melted and twisted on his face, dripping down along his cheeks, his clothes were burning, his skin was bubbling, but he felt no pain. 

Voldemort’s body was now a twisted and charred thing, and Harry watched as it twitched and squirmed, and an old and wrinkled hand emerged from within the pile. It scrabbled at the ground as the thing within clawed its way to freedom. Harry was now completely engulfed in flames, but he watched as Dumbledore crawled, naked and wrinkled, from the corpse of Voldemort, his beard a startling white against the blackness of the burned body. Dumbledore looked up at him and opened his mouth.

_Wake up._

He woke to find Snape, sleepless yet again, staring at him thoughtfully across that short, cold span of empty bed. 

“You left last night,” he said and Severus’s gaze shifted, leaving his face and returning, gentling very slightly before he closed his eyes and turned, laying back against the mattress.

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I had… disturbing dreams, yes. But it is not unusual for me to not sleep an entire night through. I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you to hear that I often spend nights wandering about the castle.”

Harry smiled, gazing up at the ceiling above them. “From the number of times you caught me doing just the same thing, no. I wondered if you slept at all, or if you did it just to catch me in the act.”

Severus’ mouth turned up at the edges, but he didn’t open his eyes. “There was an element of that, I will admit, but it has been some time since I could trust sleep.”

Harry rolled up to his side and he reached across the space between them to put a hand on his arm, gripping. Severus’ smile soured into a self-deprecating smirk, but he didn’t move away, as much as the tenseness of his body suggested he wanted to.

“I gave him everything and I loved to do it. But sleep was the one time when he had no control over me, when I could not give willingly, and so he took. It was not long before even the nights which passed uninterrupted were not truly so. If he did not take me physically, I dreamt it. I learned to require very little sleep.”

“He isn’t here, Severus. He can’t hurt you,” Harry told him, but he couldn’t manage to sound as convincing as he wanted. The dream still lingered, and he could still feel Voldemort like oil in his blood. Severus grimaced and rolled away from his touch, rolling up to his feet. Harry watched as the man slung his robe around his body and disappeared wordlessly into the washroom.

Harry sighed and got to his own feet, dressing slowly, moving as though through water. He felt drained and exhausted with being afraid. Every mirror he passed, every reflective surface, he expected to see Voldemort staring back at him through his own eyes. His dreams were becoming a problem, each one worse than the last, each one more visceral and terrible. He had seen flashes of images that could only be memories, but not his own. Images of himself kneeling and chained, passively accepting dripping cubes of fruit from long, narrow fingers. Images of frightened faces, dead bodies. And once, two nights ago, a long, flickering memory of a young Severus Snape in a white sheeted bed, arms chained to the bedposts, head thrown back, voice begging and hoarse, bloody gashes striping his chest. Harry had woken up sharply to find Severus gone from the bed, robe and shoes gone from their place by the door. He had stood in the middle of the front room, arms wrapped about his torso, shaking and cold. It was only when Dobby appeared and insisted on stoking the fire up to a dangerous blaze to combat ‘the cold the master is getting’ that Harry managed to shake off his feelings and go back to bed.

Harry finished dressing, and he turned his head as Snape returned wordlessly from the washroom, passing him with a single, tentative glance before he left, heading for his office. The glance meant that by noon, Snape would search Harry out and apologize with yet another wordless glance, and Harry would smile and touch him with his fingertips, and they would go on pretending as if nothing had happened; pretending nothing had changed.

But that would be later.

He left Snape’s rooms and made his way up through the castle, heading toward his distant and now foreign bedroom in the Gryffindor tower to gather clothing for Ron, as his friend couldn’t seem to be bothered to dress himself anymore. He emerged from the dungeons and stood at the base of the main stairs heading upward into the castle, his exhausted body protesting at the thought of the remaining distance to the tower. It felt ridiculous to walk up the hundreds of worn, slippery stone steps when he had a convenient shortcut, and his hand crawled thoughtlessly into the neck of his robes to touch the medallion that still hung about his neck.

It was then, as his fingers met with the cool metal laying flat against his breastbone, that he felt it. The medallion sparked hot against his fingertips and the whole of the castle shuddered. He heard a loud, grating crash, almost as he imagined an avalanche might sound, and then he felt a breathy laugh against the nape of his neck. It raised all the hair on his neck and sent him down to his knees. He released the medallion to brace himself and his hands gripped into the fabric of his trousers, but the laughter was gone as quickly as it had come. The medallion swung free in the air, and it was cool to the touch once more as he tucked it back into his shirt. He breathed deeply as he knelt on the stone ground and let his heartbeat calm, before he ventured a glance up from the ground.

There stood Professor Trelawney on the step above him, looking dazed and confused. Her glasses were askew, her hair stood on end, and the edges of her robes were smoking slightly.

And she was most certainly a ghost.

“Oh dear,” she said and looked down at Harry, who stared up at her before rising hesitantly to his feet. She held up a hand and stared at him through it. “Oh my. I think… Harry, child, I think someone’s spell may have gone terribly wrong.”

He tried to take a step toward her, but his knees buckled under him and he tried in vain to grasp her outstretched hand but he fell straight through her, landing jarringly against the banister of the stairs. Trelawney wafted around slowly in a circle and peered at him, reaching up to fix her glasses to sit properly on her nose. They promptly slid back crookedly.

“Professor,” he began and thought desperately for what might possibly be the proper thing to say in this circumstance. Was there a ritual to accompany this moment, a ceremony? After all, it was, he thought dazedly, her first deathday. “Professor, do you remember what happened?”

“’Remember what happened’?” Trelawney repeated and drew herself up as if affronted. “I don’t teach _history.”_

He rubbed his forehead and winced as his scar sparked fire behind his eyes. Did the wards fail? Had Voldemort found a way to bypass them? Had a student done this, someone loyal to the Death Eaters? The questions sent cold shivers of panic down his spine.

“Professor. I think we ought to go speak with the Headmaster.”

Trelawney shook out her robes, frowning down at the ragged hem of them, and then again tried to adjust her glasses. “Yes, perhaps we should,” she said and blinked as her glasses tilted back into misplace.

It took very little time to reach the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, less for Trelawney who drifted in and out of walls, skipping whole hallways entirely, as if even when she had lived, solid stone had been optional rather than enforced. She drifted back to him periodically, poking her head from a portrait or a door, peering at him with bobble-eyes and a lion’s mane of electrocuted hair, and when they finally reached the closed entrance to the Headmaster’s office, she floated through wordlessly, leaving Harry to curse and rattle through a dozen or two names of sweets until the gargoyle finally swung open for ‘jelly babies’.

While Trelawney moved about as unrestricted as air, Harry felt quite the opposite. He felt like a stone dropped in deep water, and he had to force each next step into Dumbledore’s office. A part of him wanted to beg for forgiveness, this man who had been his guardian, his guide, his friend since the beginning, but enough people had seen Harry on his knees, and for once, he wanted someone to apologize to him. His rage had dulled to a quiet simmer, and he thought to himself, as he stepped forward through the doors and into the warm, inviting, eclectic office, that he could do this. _A lack of trust doesn’t necessarily negate the possibility of conversation,_ Severus’ voice said in his head, and he agreed and smiled politely as he greeted the Headmaster, who had stood from his desk and crossed to a window to peer out at the billows of smoke in the air.

“Harry,” he greeted quietly, far more subdued than Harry was used to seeing the elderly man. He turned toward Harry, who was immediately struck by how old the Headmaster looked. His skin was a chalky grey, his eyes pale. His smile, as he curved it at Harry, was quiet. “Thank you for bringing Sybill to me.”

He nodded and dug his hands into the pockets of his robes. His fingertips brushed against his wand. “It seemed to be the right idea. What’s happened?”

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and looked over at Trelawney who was desperately trying to shake the smoke from her robes. It should have been funny, but Harry couldn’t help thinking of Nearly Headless Nick and his Elizabethan ruff, head trapped by mere inches of skin and sinew, of Moaning Myrtle, trapped in teenaged angst and toilets. To be forever trapped in the moment of your murder seemed a harsh punishment.

“The Divinations tower has been destroyed,” Dumbledore said quietly and Trelawney jerked, letting out a wrenching cry of pure anguish. She collapsed down the floor in a sobbing heap and Harry reached out a hand to comfort her, but then pulled back as he realised that no one could ever do so again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a few scenes related to background relationships - FYI.
> 
> I haven't tagged the story with all of the pairings because I didn't want to give everything away, but if you want to know what they are before you read further, message me here or on my tumblr (riverdenile) and I'll be happy to share the pairings. (And if you think I should tag this with the pairings or anything else, let me know that too! I'm super happy to take suggestions.)
> 
> But don't worry - there's still lots of Harry and Severus! I think it'll be about 5-7 more chapters before this part wraps up and there WILL be a sequel.

Ginny met both Neville and Draco as they hurried down the staircase. Several flights above them, Professor McGonagall was cursing the staircase as it moved her from her path, and some distance away she could feel, churning in the back of her mind, Snape approaching with fear and fury even as she tried to close herself from the sudden storm of power that raged in the air about the castle. She felt sick with it.

Someone had died. She had felt that sort of energy before, when Cedric Diggory had been killed – it was a revolting feeling, like something quite slippery and dark, a large worm, was slithering across her skin combined with the sharp feeling of a life cut down before its time. It had been the first time she remembered feeling power as a tactile, living thing. She had had moments before, times when she knew she felt something others did not, but she had known, long before the portkey had brought Harry back, long before anyone had seen Cedric’s body and what had transpired. She had known. She had felt it.

And she felt it again today. Something had shaken Hogwarts down to its mountainous roots.

McGonagall caught up with the three as they reached the gargoyle statue and she spat ‘jelly babies’ at it and forced her way through it as it swung open. Ginny glanced back down the hall and saw Snape storm around the corner, heading toward her blindly. She slipped through the doorway and followed the others.

Once inside the office, she stumbled into Neville, who pulled her from the doorway in time to allow Snape to charge into the room. He pushed past them and headed single-mindedly toward Harry, who turned his head and looked at him with an expression so tired, she almost did not recognize him. Harry allowed himself to be manhandled, Snape’s hands grasping his shoulders and turning him away from Dumbledore’s desk, Snape’s dark eyes taking in the whole of him.

“I wasn’t hurt,” Harry told him with a voice filled with exhaustion. 

“What happened?” Snape demanded of Harry, but it was the Headmaster who cleared his throat and nodded his head toward the fireplace separating his office from his personal chambers. As Ginny looked, the silvery outline of Trelawney stepped through the wall and fretfully paced two steps before turning back.

Ginny stared and her mouth dropped open. “What…?”

At the sound of Ginny’s voice, Trelawney turned back as she was midway through the wall and her face split into a delighted smile. “Ginny!” She wafted toward the young woman who flinched back. “Oh, Ginny. Dreadful news, I’m afraid. Completely shocking. The tower, my precious tower… gone. Dreadful man, no respect for a person’s home at all.” 

She stopped talking abruptly as she noticed the others in the room. She glanced awkwardly from Neville to Draco and on to Harry and Snape, and she drew herself upright and shook out her robes, sending smoke spiralling. Smoothing back her frazzled hair and trying to set her crooked glasses right, she amended, “I knew it was coming, of course. I saw it in my tea leaves, just last night, I saw it. Three, erm… circles, in a… ah… Well, it was obvious. No other outcome at all. I just…” She frowned down at herself. “I do, however, wish they had allowed me to change out of my slippers first.” She kicked out a foot from beneath her blackened robes to reveal ghostly slippers in the shape of clawed dragon’s feet.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and said quietly, “Voldemort has found a way through the wards, if only for a moment. A moment is all he needs. He will bring the war here, and here it will end.” 

He cast his eyes down at his own clasped hands and Ginny, for a split second, saw him opening a door into a room, the creases of his hands stained the colour of dark rust. The vision was gone instantly, but left her shaken as he continued, “I must go. The Order must be called. Minerva, I set you in charge of organizing our defence. We must ready the castle for the war.”

McGonagall gave a sharp nod and she set her mouth into a hard line. “Of course. I will speak with Hagrid. Perhaps he can gather assistance from the creatures of the Forest. Firenze might be able to help there as well.”

“I’ll call in the trustworthy Slytherins,” Draco said, and Harry snorted.

Snape and Draco shot identical glares at him, and he held up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. No, I know. I know they exist, but…” He shook his head with a smile.

Dumbledore turned away and stepped through Trelawney with a ‘pardon me’ and retrieved his yellow hat from the mantlepiece. He set it on his head and said, “I leave the rest of you to your machinations. We haven’t much time. Harry, if you would like to call in your DA and anyone else you feel up to the task of war, please do.” 

He collected his wand from his desk and turned back to them. Ginny was struck again by how tired he looked and how deep the lines in his face had sunk. He hesitated, his blue eyes fixed somewhere near Harry's knees, and then he shook his head and smiled at them.

“Good luck,” were his parting words, and he strode from his office, leaving them to glance worriedly from one to the other.

“Oh, Harry, dear,” Trelawney said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her. She frowned slightly and adjusted her glasses. “You’ll have to leave it behind.”

He frowned at her. “Leave what behind?”

She blinked owlishly through her thick glasses and tilted her head. “Hmm? What?” She shook her head and then frowned at the ceiling above her. “Drat!” She cried suddenly. “Peeves!” And sank down through the floor to be followed by the poltergeist sporting a maniacal grin.

Harry stared at the ground beneath his feet and threw up his hands. “Leave _what_ behind?”

* * *

“Something’s happening,” Ron told Hermione. His fingertips swept a lock of hair from her forehead and he bit his lip. “This may be it. That's what everyone is saying – that this will be war. We're supposed to ready ourselves.”

Despite the hope he held, there had been no change in her. Her breath came in steady inhales and exhales and her face was calm and still. He had washed her hair the day before, had combed the tangles from it, and had run a thin oil through it with his fingers, and today it lay against the white pillow in smooth, shiny curls. Her lips had a slight flush to them and were slightly upturned, as though she held back a secret. She looked beautiful.

“I don’t think I’ll make it out alive. I’m not you, Hermione. I don’t know my spells and I don’t have your confidence. And I’m not Harry, with anything near his courage or his power. I don’t have much of anything, really, but brothers and second-hand everything. You, and Harry, you’re all I ever had to myself. If I die… My family will miss me, but there are enough of us that one going missing, it won’t matter too much, not in the end.”

He sighed and took a single step away from her. “If you were here, I’m sure you’d tell me different. And I’d probably believe you, because I’d believe anything you told me, Hermione. Anything at all. But you’re not here. You’re safe, somewhere. Far away from this war and all the death that’s about to happen. I know it’s coming. I can just about smell it.” Ron looked away, out the windows, where smoke curled angrily across the sky, twisting over the Forbidden Forest like brambles. “I loved you. I hope you knew that.”

He bent and brushed his lips against hers, and she breathed against his mouth.

“Goodbye, Hermione.”

Ron took up his wand from the bedside table, tucked it neatly into his robes, and left the room.

* * *

People began to gather, first in drips and trickles, then in rushes and swarms. The Weasley twins were the first to arrive, their arms filled with boxes and bags and with several large trunks levitating behind them in a trail. “Just a few odds and ends,” they told Harry with a wink as they set up in the Great Hall. Angelina Johnson arrived soon after in a snappy new business robe and clicking heels, her hair swept up smartly, her broom in a neat carry-case. She smiled at Harry mysteriously and joined Fred and George with an exchange of winks, smiles and thumbed noses. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas, who had been following the news and trading newly discovered spells and hexes by owls, appeared the same day Harry contacted them, and the rest of the DA weren’t far behind. The Patil sisters arrived with glowing tans and solemn expressions, and the Creevey brothers dashed back and forth, snapping photos at every opportunity. “We’re like war correspondents!” They grinned and snapped flash in his face.

The DA weren’t the only ones arriving, of course, or it would have made a fairly shabby army. Former students of all ages came armed with wands and brooms and house elves. Former professors, well-wishers and supporters came. Neighbours and parents and relatives came. Hogwarts bulged at its seams. Rooms and halls, previously unknown or undiscovered, appeared from within the stone. Tents were set up across the surrounding grounds. Hogwarts house elves were joined by the visiting elves, and the kitchen billowed with the scent of butter and spices.

Harry was the eye of this particular hurricane. While McGonagall was the official leader of the assembling army, they all looked to Harry. They all believed in him. He was Harry Potter. He was the Boy Who Lived and this was his army. 

In the courtyard, wizards and witches of all ages dueled with one another in small groups, the elders teaching and encouraging, the youngers pushing for more. Flitwick stood on a stone bench and demonstrated various spells against Spout, who held her own admirably as a semicircle of spectators looked on.

On the Quidditch pitch, brooms flew in coordinated movements and Madam Hooch reigned, with boisterous encouragement from the ghost of Edgar Cloggs, who offered advice now and then, between cheers. Former captains shouted orders, forcing ranks, devising patterns and maneuvers. From a distance, they looked like swarms of strangely coloured birds as they dove in formation.

In the lake, the giant squid was active, rising and splashing, sending waves in all directions, as though it too wanted to join in the battle. The Merpeople, normally quite secretive, lingered along the shores and watched the movement around them. Those wizards who spoke Mermish, and who were brave enough to risk proximity to the flailing tentacles, sat on the edges of the lake and tried to explain the situation to the Merpeople, who did not seem particularly interested in the battles of the above-ground until they were told they could drown any Death Eaters who came too close to the water’s edge.

While there was a general air of solemnity to the people gathered about Hogwarts, Harry could see that there were smiles amongst them. There was laughter. On the Quidditch pitch, a snitch had made a daring escape from the supply shed, and laughter rang out as they chased it down across the field. A group of first and second years had discovered that the giant squid routinely sent water arching through the air into a shallow dip in the grass, and the children were splashing about in the impromptu pool, shrieking and giggling as the waves crashed over them. The older faces were graver – they had seen the first war, had survived it and had seen their friends and family die. They knew what was at risk. But even among them, there was a sense of optimism.

The war was coming, yes, but… They had Harry Potter. They had hope.

Harry had tried very hard to discourage them from looking directly to him for orders. 

“I’m no general,” he told them and pointed to Professor McGonagall in her war tartan. “Follow her. I’m only a fighter, the same as any of you,” he tried to say, but they wouldn’t listen. Even McGonagall consulted with him and, while he had no desire to be the face of the war effort, there was something very thrilling in being so influential. He had ideas and solutions and McGonagall listened to him. There was an empty lot under the west tower, she asked him, what should they do with it? A slew of second years arrived, wanting to help: where would they do the most good and stay out of harm? Charlie Weasley would be arriving with several dragons: Hagrid wants them by his hut, but where should they really put them?  
But the worst of it was when she came to him and said, “We have to form a retaliation strike. We cannot let the attack of Hogwarts go unanswered. Will you come join the council? We must decide on an appropriate target.”

Harry wanted to ask her what Dumbledore would do, but Dumbledore was out of reach for communications. Hints of him came in through various members of the Order as they arrived, but otherwise, there was no word and no trace of the man. McGonagall, Moody, the other members of the Order seemed to trust that he was doing just as he said he would do – seek out the members of the Order and to bring them into the effort – but Harry could no longer trust him. There were not so many surviving members of the Order to keep Dumbledore gone for so long, and most of them were already at the castle and had involved themselves in the planning, and yet Dumbledore was still absent.   
Harry didn’t trust him, but it was still a instinctive impulse to rely on the old man’s knowledge and experience. Harry wanted to be fifteen again, when he had believed in Dumbledore so strongly and so unshakably, because it had been so much easier to let someone else lead. 

Even if Dumbledore did have Harry’s best interests at heart, behind all the twisted reasoning, Harry needed to learn how to stand on his own two feet. He had an army now. The DA might be truly called Dumbledore’s Army, but it had grown beyond those few students he had taught, and it wasn’t to Dumbledore they looked – it was to Harry. If they wanted him to lead the army, he might have to learn how to be a general.

The first retaliation strike was planned for three days’ time. Mad-Eye Moody was to lead the squad, aimed at a small cottage not far from Voldemort’s Summer House, as Harry had learned it was called. The cottage was the main supply floo station for the Summer House. Manned by three Death Eaters and warded on its perimeter, it wasn’t likely to be an easy target, but it was the most effective for the first strike. Moody was confident, as always, as he gruffly ordered his squad to readiness. He had another new Order member, an Irish woman with a flare for offensive spells; three former Hogwarts students: an Auror and two in training; and two soon-to-be seventh years, Michael Corner and Cho Chang. Harry was particularly wary about Moody’s choice to include the pair. Michael and Cho had been seeing one another off and on for a year and were known for being on a rough off period at the moment, but Moody insisted. He said it would be good experience for them, as they both seemed intent on becoming aurors, and so Harry let it go. They would be with five other experienced fighters. 

Most nights, he came to bed late and exhausted, when Severus was either already asleep or was locked away in his lab, stocking up the various medical, offensive, and defensive potions they would need. They rarely saw one another. Harry had to be in the center of things, where he was sure to be seen. Everyone seemed to demand it of him, and although it was rather satisfying to finally have his experienced acknowledged, it was exhausting work. They wouldn’t let him have a moment’s peace. Even meals were spent in consultation. If he managed five hours of uninterrupted sleep, he was happy. For Severus, things were quite different. No one, save Harry, was clamoring to see him. As a former Death Eater, not everyone trusted him, even still. He kept to himself and he kept busy. When Harry asked, forcibly taking twenty minutes away from the planning to speak to him, Severus shook his head and said he didn’t mind. He preferred it. He didn’t like most of the little bastards anyway and was quite content to stay with his potions, thank you very much.

Harry missed him, though. He was exhausted and everyone needed so much of him, they wanted so much of him. His days were filled with so many decisions that could have lives in the balance. He wasn’t at all sure how Snape felt, whether the man needed him the same way Harry needed Snape, like a starving man needed food, like a drowning man needed air. Snape seemed content to brew and keep entirely to himself, as if he only wanted to be involved in this new war in as peripheral a way as possible. 

Harry knew Snape wanted this resolved as much as he did. He wanted to see the Death Eaters and their Lord fall, wanted to see them trampled, but Snape didn’t seem particularly willing to compromise his bubble of solitude to get it done. He seemed all to happy to leave the rough work for others.

But Harry needed him. One night. One uninterrupted night. If he really was the general of an army, he could surely have one bloody night to himself.

He told McGonagall that he would be taking a night off from the preparations. The retaliation strike was scheduled for early the next day and, while he had been over and over the plans with Moody, at this point there was very little left he could do. McGonagall agreed. She said he was working too hard, and of course, he should take a break. Get some sleep. She could handle the preparations for the night.

He told Moody, who waved him off, as he had things perfectly under control, thank you.

He told Ron, who gave him a narrow grin and told him to have fun.

He told Dobby, who vowed upon his life to guard the entrance to Snape’s rooms.

And finally, he snuck down to Snape’s lab and told Snape that he would be taking the night off, that they could have dinner together and a quiet night to themselves. Snape eyed him with half-closed eyes, and he murmured that he could be convinced to put aside his potions work for one night.

One night.

Everyone still needed him, up to and including the moment he said goodnight. He was hounded on his way from the field, swarmed on his way into the castle, and brought to a full-stop before going down to the dungeons.

Harry pointed anyone who approached him toward the closest member of the Order and reminded them all that there were others who could help, others who could make decisions. As the sun sank out of view, he finally managed to sneak away down the long steps into the dungeons, where he breathed a full breath of the cool, humid air he had come to enjoy.

“Harry! Harry, wait!”

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled sharply from his nose. Light steps ran down the stairs after him, and he turned and found Cho chasing after him. She hadn’t spoken to him for the better part of the year, although she had waved at him a few times and had twice smiled at him in class with that same pretty smile he had once thought meant something. Early in the year, he hadn’t been in any sort of mindset to speak to her, and now, he didn’t particularly see any point to it. She was never going to be a friend.

She hopped down the final step, her hair dropping like a heavy curtain against her back, and she stopped in front of him and pinched her lip between her teeth. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said.

“Right.”

“Early in the morning.”

Harry tilted his head at her as he waited for the punchline. She had to know that he had been the one to approve the strike for the morning. In the briefing Moody had held the day before, Harry had contributed what little information he had gathered about the Summer House and the movement of the Death Eaters. Cho had sat near him and taken notes. She could hardly think it was news to him that she would be leaving early the next morning.

“I know. And?”

“And…” Her cheeks flushed pink and she dipped her head to look up at him. “And I was wondering if… I mean… Harry, I…”

“What is it, Cho? Spit it out.”

She bit her lip and blinked back what seemed to be tears. “Harry, I still like you.”

Her words were so out of context to him, he immediately assumed that she meant she still trusted him after everything that had happened over the summer, after Voldemort and the Death Eaters had been through with him. He knew there were people saying he was compromised and needed to be watched, but he hadn’t had anyone actually address it with him. He’d rather they didn’t, if it was to be as awkward as the moment he was currently in.

“Well, okay,” he told her. “Thank you?”

“No, Harry. I mean,” she bit her lip again and left pale tooth impressions in her pink lips. “Harry, I mean that I _like_ you. Still.”

“Oh. Oh!” His eyes widened in surprise and he took a half-step backward. “Oh, Cho. No.”

“No?” Her voice trembled.

He shook his head and took another half-step away from her. “I’m involved with someone else.”

“Who?” Cho immediately demanded and stepped forward, following his retreat. “Ginny? Is it Ginny? I knew it. I knew she – ”

“No,” Harry interrupted her. “Not Ginny. Severus.”

“Severus who – ? Wait, you mean… _Snape?”_ Cho stared at him. “Professor Snape?”

“Yes, I really… I thought everyone knew by this point. It’s hardly been any kind of secret.”

She flushed red. “I thought it had to be a joke,” she said. “You weren’t gay last year.”

He rubbed at his scar and sighed. Whatever Voldemort was doing to cause it, the scar had been leaving him with a constant headache lately and having his romantic life referred to as a joke wasn’t helping.

“I didn’t know what I was last year. I mean, there were girls I thought were pretty and I thought that was what it was supposed to be like. But that was before – ” He cut himself off as he felt a flush crawl up his neck. Cho’s eyes were wide, and he gestured his hand back and forth between them. “There wasn’t any spark between us, Cho. Not like there is with Severus.”

She looked a bit horrified on his behalf, as if he might have taken a hard fall and now thought he was the Queen of Spain. He sighed again. “Every minute I spend here is a minute I don’t spend with him, and I’d much rather spend those minutes with him. So…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry if you’re upset, but that’s really not my problem.”

He turned and walked away, leaving her in her small circle of dull light. After three steps, he heard her storm away, and shook his head to himself. Not his concern, he told himself again.

* * *

The sun was slowly sinking in the sky when Ginny found Neville and Draco hiding in the potting shed.

They stood a little too close to one another, their shoulders touching, and their twin expressions of surprise as she opened the door nearly made her laugh. They had set wards about the shed, but they were all fairly rudimentary, if you knew to look for them. After all, it was unlikely anyone might think the potting shed by the smallest of the greenhouses would be a secret meeting location for Dumbledore’s youngest spies, two of the most unlikely collaborators of Hogwarts, but here it was. It had the same out-of-the-way charm as the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch but clearly hadn’t yet been discovered by the student population as a serviceable tryst location. It was a wasted opportunity if Draco and Neville had used it exclusively for business, but she knew the two of them were still dancing around one another.

“It’s only me,” she told them, as she closed the door behind herself. Dust swirled from the ceiling, glimmering in the pale light cast from a charmed moonstone that sat on a dirty worktable. The air smelled of dark, rich earth and growing, green things. 

“Ginny! Don’t you knock?” Neville had jumped back the small distance the shed allowed him, and he glared at her from where he had wedged himself between a large barrel and a high, narrow table, dusted with dark soil.

She rolled her eyes and pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “On a potting shed? Honestly, it’s not like you’re using it for anything important.” She dusted off the worktable with the sleeve of her sweater and then hopped up on the edge of it, hooking and swinging her legs together. 

“What else would we be using it for?” Neville unwedged himself from the corner and glared up at her. “We’re not in here crocheting!”

She laughed and rearranged her skirt around her knees. “Crocheting is really not what I thought might be happening in here, Neville.” She poked Draco’s thigh with the tip of her toe, and then had to physically suppress her grin at the scandalized look Draco shot the now muddy spot on his trousers. He narrowed his eyes at her with a look that promised retaliation and she felt the shiver that look elicited in her fingertips as she gripped her hands on the edge of the table.

Neville glanced between the two of them as he slid a fraction closer to Draco and he said, “What on earth are you talking about, Ginny?”

Draco’s mouth turned up and he nudged Neville to silence. “I believe the witch is implying that there is something _else_ between us, Neville.”

“What? I don’t – ” Neville cut himself off and a brilliant flush travelled upward across his neck and over his cheeks as his eyes widened. His eyes darted toward Draco and immediately away. “That's not funny, Ginny! I didn't think you'd… I don't know why you'd… I thought, I thought we were friends!”

“We are!” Ginny exclaimed and she reached out toward him, unsure where she’d gone wrong, but he shrugged away from her and shuffled backward again. He crossed his arms defensively around himself and stared down at the floor. She looked over at Draco desperately, but his face had shuttered itself away as well. He had crossed his arms tightly across his chest, pressing deep wrinkles into his white shirt. His knuckles were white.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean anything bad, Neville! There’s nothing _bad_ about, about you or Draco or, or any of that. It’s good! I think it’s great, even! I – ” She took a deep breath. “I _swear,_ Neville.” She reached out her hand again and his eyes flicked up at it and then toward her face. “I swear. I didn’t mean to be funny. I was… I was just trying to, um, encourage you. A bit. Because I, um…”

Ginny trailed off and felt her own face heating up. It wouldn’t be a good look. She always went splotchy when she blushed, brilliant spots of bright red across her cheeks and a mottled look down her neck. It clashed with her hair. It wasn’t good.

“I didn’t… Oh sweet Circe.” She put her face in her hands. “I’ve royally buggered this up.”

“What exactly did you think you were doing, then? I…” Neville had a hardness to his voice. “I know that you can see things, that you can look into people and, and see. And I know you’ve done it to me. I know you’ve looked at… at my future? My dreams? I’m not sure where your power ends, Ginny. And I _trusted_ you with what you saw in me, because you’re my friend and what choice did I have? And now you pull it out to mock me with it? In front of… As if I’m not pathetic enough as it is?”

She lifted her face out of her hands and stared over at Neville. “What? I don’t think you’re pathetic, Neville. I think you’re… I’m not mocking you! I would never do that! I would _never…”_ Ginny reached out again and grabbed at his arm. She gripped it with her narrow fingers and held his eyes with the same fierce hold. “I care about you. I care about you, and I care about Draco. And I was definitely not mocking you! Teasing a bit, yes, but I wasn’t making fun. I think you and Draco would be amazing together. I was just trying to, um, nudge you a bit. That’s all!”

Neville’s mouth twisted up into an ugly smile. “Nudge me a bit,” he parroted. “Someone like Draco would never want someone like _me._ I never needed to hear it – I was fine just having a… having a bit of a crush.” He flushed red again and shook his head. “So thank you. Because I needed someone like _you_ to make this real. Now we get to be awkward with one another. That’s great, Ginny.”

Her mouth dropped open, but it was Draco who finally spoke. He took a step toward Neville, which, due to the small size of the shed, brought him nearly pressed into Neville’s side, and he reached out with both hands to grip at the arms Neville still held crossed against himself.

“You’re an idiot,” he said, and Neville’s chin shot up as he cast an incredulous look at Draco.

“Don’t argue,” Draco told him as he gave Neville a firm shake. “You clearly are.” He raised his hands from Neville’s arms and framed his face as he leaned over the crossed arms and pressed his lips against Neville’s.

Neville’s eyes fell shut and he made a small sound in the back of his throat as his arms uncrossed and moved hesitantly to rest on Draco’s hips.

Draco pulled away and gave him a stern look. “You’re an idiot.”

“Okay,” Neville whispered as he stared at Draco with wide eyes.

“This is what you saw, I imagine?” Draco asked Ginny and she smiled and hopped down off the table.

“It’s – part of it.” She reached over to Neville and pulled him away from Draco and into her arms. “I would never, never mock you, Neville. Like I said: I care about you.” She tilted his head down and pressed her lips against his forehead. He lifted his head and offered her a hesitant smile, one that she returned immediately. Ginny held his gaze for a moment too long, long enough for his smile to slip a little, for his hazel eyes to turn questioning, and for a nervous flutter to take wind in her stomach.

She could let go and step back. It would be the easiest, the safest route. But she couldn’t be a Weasley if she took the safe route.

So she leaned in and gently pressed her lips against Neville’s. It was a soft kiss and Neville was likely too startled to do anything in return. His lips were frozen under hers.  
His eyes were wide when she pulled back and she patted his chest before stepping away from him. Draco reached out and squeezed her fingers quickly as she took another step back toward the door.

“I definitely wasn’t mocking you, Neville.” She reached behind her for the doorknob. It was a very good time to make a retreat. Neville stared at her with wide eyes and Draco gave her a tiny smile as he moved to pull Neville closer to him. When Neville startled and looked up at him, Ginny took advantage and left the shed, closing the door quickly behind her.

The sun had set and she looked up at the scattering of stars above her, before she bit her lip to contain a grin and headed back toward the castle.

* * *

By the time Harry took his well-earned night, he and Snape hadn't had sex in nearly a week, and they were both feeling the distance between them. Snape was his normal misanthropic self, as if nothing could ever touch him, but his eyes tracked after Harry when they found themselves in the same room. If they managed physical proximity with one another for more than a passing second, his fingers would take hold of Harry’s sleeve and stroke against his bare wrist. And once, they had passed one another on the stairs and Snape had reached out and pressed him back against the wall and, to the backdrop of the portraits’ gasps and whispers, had kissed Harry ferociously. Afterward, Harry had to spend a good five minutes trying to remember where he’d been heading.

He had every intention of making their night together something to remember. He had a plan. 

Of course, the plan needed Snape to have remembered the plan, to have actually come back to their rooms so that Harry could enact the plan.

He’d taken the steps down into their rooms two at a time and burst into the sitting room, expecting to find Snape waiting for him by the fire, reading one of his hundreds of books, but the sitting room was empty, as was Snape’s bedroom, his own bedroom, and the bath. He checked each room twice, just to be completely sure, and then he stood in the middle of the sitting room and breathed out an irate breath.

“Seriously? Are potions that interesting?” He grumbled to himself as he climbed back up the stairs and made his way down the hall toward the potions classroom and the attached laboratory. _“I could be convinced,”_ he mimicked Snape’s tone and pushed opened the classroom door. The room was empty, but there was a flickering light beneath the door leading into the office and onward to the lab. 

“You couldn’t be bothered to – ” 

There was no one in the office either and the door to the lab was closed. He sighed and knocked four times against middle panel of the door. The latch clicked twice as it was unsealed, and he pushed into the room, beginning again: “You couldn’t be bothered to – ”

“You’re late,” Snape interrupted him. He set down a long, glass stirring rod on the worktable beside him and circled one of the three enormous cauldrons standing waist-high on the floor of the room. Each bubbled with a different potion, the fumes of which swirled up toward the high ceiling. Several other worktables had smaller cauldrons with other potions in various stages of preparation. The air had an oily feel to it and the smell in the room was on the wrong side of unpleasant. Snape was down to a white button-down and had rolled up the sleeves to expose his forearms. The expression on his face made Harry step backward against the now closed and sealed door.

“What?” 

Snape strode forward with his wand in hand and a determined look in his eyes.

“Late. You are late. This potion is in a delicate state and cannot be delayed further. The final ingredients must be extremely fresh and added at precisely the right moment, as I explained to you.” Snape pushed him back against the door and began to roll up Harry’s sleeve. Harry stared down as his forearm was exposed and shivered when Snape slid his thumb across the skin of his inner elbow. 

“Excellent. Excellent veins. That will ease that portion of the harvest.” Snape slid his hand through Harry’s hair and tugged lightly, and just as Harry moaned slightly, he pulled a single hair loose. He held it up to the light as Harry rubbed at his head.

“Ouch.”

“Your hair shaft is oblong.” Snape glared down at him as if this was a personal affront.

“Um? Sorry?” 

Snape sighed. “No matter. It will not greatly alter the formula, but I do wish you had mentioned this to me at an earlier point. Have I not adequately impressed upon you the delicate nature of potions?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying right now.” Harry tried to supress his laughter and succeeded only in smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. “You know that, right?”

“The potion, you daft boy,” Snape rolled his eyes. “The one I told you I would attempt, not five evenings ago?”

“Was I even in the room when you told me this? I’d remember you telling me something about a potion that involved _harvesting me.”_

Snape waved a hand through the air. “Irrelevant. This potion is, as I have said, at a critical juncture, and yes, _harvest you_ I must do, or I will have to spend another five days repeating the work I have done, time I cannot guarantee we have to spare. Do you or do you not want to survive your next encounter with the Dark Lord?”

“Okay, okay,” Harry held out his arm. “Calm down. You can harvest all you want. Within reason,” he added quickly. “I’ll still need _some_ blood and hair left, mind.”

“I would hardly drain you dry. I cannot save your life if you are lying dead on the floor of my laboratory.” Snape curled his fingers around Harry’s wrist and dragged him closer to a worktable on which bubbled a smaller cauldron. On the worktable rested a slim, sharp knife, Snape’s bundled robes, and several rolls of parchment covered in tightly scribbled words and notations that Harry couldn’t immediately work out. They were in Snape’s hand, though, the way he wrote when he was short on time and patience.

Snape brushed against him as he took his robe from the table, and Harry pushed his sleeve further up again.

“Blood first?”

Snape tossed the robe down at Harry’s feet and reached up to pull his hair back from his face, fastening it into a snug ponytail. “I shall spare you from taxing your poor, neglected mind by asking you to reflect back on the lessons I have attempted to impress upon you, but no, Harry. Not blood first.”

And Snape sank down to his knees onto the cushion of his robe and reached up to unfasten Harry’s belt.

“Oh, hey,” Harry began and then, as Snape turned his gaze upward to meet his eyes, he thought better of interrupting.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for interpretive Latin and a casual re-writing of Rowling's dragon lore. Also, a bit of death.

The morning was thick with a mist that swirled across the rough landscape. The sky was a dusky grey to the east and nearly black to the west, and the birds had not yet woken to greet the dawn. Moody scanned his eyes over the area, and his mouth turned up into a toothy smile. He loved the silent moments before battle, when everything was a held breath waiting for the exhale.

A barely detectable crunch of ground behind him had his magical eye swivelling backward, and Maeve O’Byrne stepped up to him, her head barely reaching to his shoulder. Her dark hair was tucked up neatly, and her sharp, black eyes took in everything. She crossed her arms over her chest and stood still, taking in the same scene as he, before she asked, “Wards?”

“Down,” Moody replied. “Easiest piece of curse-breaking I’ve done all year.”

“Not a good sign,” she murmured, and he agreed, though he was still pleased with himself.

She glanced at him. “If the wards were easy, the Death Eaters won’t be.”

“They rarely are.”

“The children are anxious,” Maeve said as she drew her wand and flicked it through the air. 

Moody didn’t reply. Children were always anxious. Potter had wondered about his choice to include the two, but they needed the experience. No one was ever ready for war but it was important to get out and either learn or die. Especially the girl. She had guts in her, Moody could see it. She just needed a Death Eater hell-bent on seeing her dead to bring it out.

“How soon?”

Moody’s magical eye roved over the area, zeroing in on the small cottage nestled in a grassy hollow. “Sentry switch in ten minutes.”

She nodded and turned away without a word.

He liked her, Maeve, liked her no-nonsense approach, despite her relative youth. He had worked with her only twice before and had always enjoyed it. She missed nothing at all. A good fighter and a sensible sort, with no taste for killing but no squeamishness either. A fine balance not often seen. Prisoners came whole for questioning, unless they needed killing and when so, there was no hesitation. He liked her very well.

He heard the sound of the others making ready behind him, and he shook his head, trying to shake off Trelawney and her crackpot predictions. She was worse now, as a ghost, here and there and everywhere, spouting odd bits of predictions wherever she went. Impossible to be free of her.

_First light brings first blood and the choices made will haunt those with no choice. While beauty – fleeting, falling, flying, fatal, fallacious – severs the right hand of the mirror image of power._

Rubbish, he thought and looked back at his squad, faces pale, eyes wide, mouths set. His mouth curled into a grin and warned them, “Constant vigilance!” 

“And don’t get killed if you can help it,” Maeve added with a flick of her wand.

The grass was wet with dew as they made their way toward the cottage, a blessing as it muffled the sound of their footsteps, and the air about them was heavy with moisture. As they neared the edge of the fallen wards, a bleary-eyed gnome roused itself from the ground to peer at them, but the young aurors were quick to dispatch it with methods not entirely sanctioned by the Care of Magical Creatures department. 

Moody focused on the cottage. His eye informed him that three warm bodies moved within, two males and one female, and he wished he had had better intelligence on the identities of the Death Eaters. He had faced nearly all of them at one time or another over the decades, and he had found that they had vastly differed in styles and abilities. He did not stress adaptability as a key skill for aurors without cause. Rarely did any mission keep to plan.

As though on cue, one of the forms within the cabin lifted its head and turned to stare through the solid wall in their direction. He tensed and, beside him, he felt Maeve tense as well, immediately lowering herself into strike position near to the ground. His wand vibrated in his hand, itching for a fight, and he watched the figures within the cottage move toward the exit.

“Ready yourself,” he murmured and Maeve hissed, “Down!”

They crouched into the wet grass and Moody watched as the three figures emerged from the cabin and gazed across the field. He wished for a magical ear to supplement his eye as he watched them exchange a quick conversation, and then the female, unrecognizable in her long hooded robe, returned to the cabin while the other two stayed. They were close enough for Moody to recognize them, two inconsequential Death Eaters, neither of whom had played a significant role in the last war – sullen creatures with little talent but great hatred. The two Death Eaters turned to look in their direction and drew their wands.

Moody glanced at Maeve and, in a meeting of eyes and thoughts, mapped a plan. She gave a sharp nod and slashed her hand low through the air in a motion at those behind her. Moody could hear the slight rustle of their robes against the grass as they readied to move and then Maeve’s wand cut forward and a chevron of fire burst forward, narrowing to a point on the two Death Eaters. The younger aurors behind them flung out hexes, and the Death Eaters cried out as their skin broke out in boils and the ground beneath their feet burned.

Moody charged forward through the smoke and steam from the burning wet grass, and behind him came a shout of _“Expelliarmus!”_ And the Death Eaters’ wands flew away into the burning brush, but it was only a heartbeat later that the two wizards summoned their wands back from the fire, holding the burning lengths with determination. 

_“Crucio!”_ They called back and the magic brushed over Moody’s shoulder and hit someone behind him. Agonized cries rang in his ears, but he did not spare a moment to check. He raised his wand high and locked both eyes on the Death Eaters, and he cast his own specialized, crafted version of _Petrify_ at them. The spell locked his victims behind a thin film of amber-coloured goo, which quickly solidified into hard stone and locked them into a twisted parody of sculptured art. Before he could do more, however, one of the young aurors sent _Ulcisci_ toward the stone mass and it, along with the bodies it contained, shattered. Moody growled at the waste. They could have been interrogated; they would have broken easily and revealed much. Now they were gone and, worse yet, he would have to write a report explaining why.

His magical eye detected movement again as the female Death Eater stepped into the doorway of the cottage. There was a thick aura of magic about her, crackling with power.

“Drop your wand and surrender. You don’t have to die today,” he called out, although he hardly expected her to comply. The other aurors circled her carefully, and she laughed suddenly and every hair on Moody’s body stood on end. He knew that laugh.

She tossed back her hood with a snap of her arm and dark hair tumbled down around a familiar face.

“Don’t be a fool, Alastor,” Bellatrix laughed, because of course it was she – disposable pawns sent ahead to distract as the queen moved to strike. He should have recognized her immediately. 

The fire snapped about her but did not reach the billowing hem of her cloak. Her hair billowed in the breeze. She was beautiful, had always been beautiful – even now, at her age, with Azkaban behind her, she could stop a man in his tracks.

Maeve did not have the same history, the same hesitation, and the two women faced one another. The flames licked higher against the walls of the cottage and Bellatrix turned her head as she considering her adversary.

“You, I do not know.”

“Shall we underestimate one another?” Maeve suggested with a feral grin which Bellatrix returned, seemingly pleased.

The fire cast deep shadows against Bellatrix’s face, sharpening the contrast of her cheekbones. She looked unearthly, but Maeve was not far from the same. The flickering light caused dark hollows beneath her eyes and lengthened her nose into a sharp hook. The wind caught at her black robe and dragged it backward on her outstretched arms until it seemed she had thick wings rising behind her.

“A pretty trick,” Bellatrix complimented as they circled one another. “But pretty tricks only last so long.”

“I bow to your experience on the subject,” Maeve dipped her head and cast a sidelong look at Moody, who jolted to attention and he was glad that Bellatrix had her own distraction and had not caught on to his.

He gestured obliquely at the other aurors behind him, who stepped into position in a loose semi-circle beside him. He lifted his wand, trusting that the others would do so as well, for if the spells were not timed properly, a witch as powerful as Bellatrix could easily deflect them. Ahead of him, Maeve and Bellatrix traded hexes meant to impress more than damage, although each spell had a sharper edge than any student might use in a dueling practice. These were easily deflected by each of the women as they tested each other’s strengths and defences.

It was a pretty display and worked precisely in his favour. He adjusted his stance and cast _Incarcifors_ at her robe, and the aurors were only a breath behind him as they cast _Petrificus Totalus,_ and the four spells slammed into the witch from all sides. Her robe became transfigured into a full-body straight jacket – the sleeves pulling tight behind her back and the skirt twisting about her legs – and as the other spells combined against her, she slammed down against the ground and lay still.

Moody quickly extinguished the flames about them and huffed out a breath as the sun broke over the horizon and cast golden light over the smoking landscape. He stepped closer to the prone form on the ground, nodded in approval at Maeve and then turned his eyes down to meet the furious gaze of Bellatrix. His lips turned up in a smirk as he pulled his flask from his robes and saluted her with it.

* * *

Harry visited the infirmary as soon he received word that Moody and his team had returned. The younger aurors had come through unscathed, more or less. One had a long burn up his leg and another had only barely escaped being torn in half by a hex trap, rigged to detect the muggle-born, that had been set in the doorway of the cottage. The auror had tripped it when she had stepped over the threshold, and she had received a long jagged cut down her arm and across her back. It was deep enough to slice through muscle and abrade the bone beneath. She would have a long recovery, and she would carry the scar of it for the rest of her life, but she was alive and would recover. 

The same could not be said for Michael Corner. The dual _Crucios_ had caused his heart to arrest and then the fire had burned him beyond recognition. Cho was being held in a magically-induced coma as she had tried to save Michael the moment he fell and, due to the power of the fire, had sustained burns across her back, legs and arms. Her lungs were so damaged, she could no longer breathe unaided and Pomfrey was hesitant to say if she would ever regain full use of her legs due to extensive nerve and muscle damage. 

Cho would be transferred to the healers at St. Mungo's by noon, Pomfrey told him as he stood at the foot of Cho’s bed, one hand gripping at the metal of the bed frame. She put a hand on his shoulder and it felt unbearably heavy, as though it were Hagrid’s hand and not the healer’s. The morning sun shone in the tall windows and lit the gauzy wrappings swaddled about Cho’s small frame. She looked tiny against the sheets, bundled up and hidden within the medical fabric protecting what remained of her skin. 

He had sent her out there. He had sent Michael out there. He had known they weren’t ready, but he had let them go. He had taken a night for himself, and now, people were dead. Because he had told them to go.

From his position at the foot of the bed, he could see the curtained area where Hermione lay. He stared at the opaque curtains which blocked his friend from view and then back to Cho’s prone form. He stepped away, hands clenched in the pockets of his robe, and left the infirmary.

They shouldn’t wait for the return volley, he knew. Voldemort wouldn’t take long to strike back, now that they had Bellatrix. Moody was already scouting for new locations to attack, new weaknesses in their enemy, and McGonagall found herself swamped by new recruits nearly daily. The fields were brimming with tents to hold what the castle could not, although Hogwarts was not without her own efforts, as a new wing of the castle had appeared one misty morning. McGonagall claimed it had been lost nearly two centuries past. It came complete with a large barracks and a massive open-air enclosure, which left them all baffled for a purpose until Charlie Weasley arrived with his three dragons and it became clear it was an aviary of sorts.

They wanted him to make decisions, but they didn’t want to risk him in the field. Michael Corner was expendable, it seemed, but Harry Potter must be protected at all costs. They wanted so much from him but he felt strangely alone amidst all of their activity.

It was moments like that when he felt unbearably homesick for marble, chains, and a steady, comforting heartbeat, but the depths of his yearning for that terrible, peaceful, painful place left a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. He wanted to hate it, wanted to hate Voldemort, he knew he should hate him, but he longed for him, for his hand stroking through his hair, for the quiet presence against his mind, for the belonging he had felt under Voldemort’s ownership. It shamed him, the longing he felt.

He touched a hand to his throat, to a place where leather had once held him tightly, and his fingertips touched the chain about his neck. The medallion slid from his shirt and brushed warmly against his knuckles.

A roar sounded from the southern side of the castle, where the castle housed Charlie’s dragons. Feeding time, Harry thought to himself, thinking of the fenced herd of goats grazing just beyond the orchards. He dropped the medallion back into his shirt as he considered his options.

A dragon could do quite a bit of damage. Three could do considerably more. Certainly enough damage to reduce Voldemort’s Summer House to rubble.

He wanted to raze it to the ground himself, with his own bare hands – a notion that should have conflicted with his desire to return to the belonging he had experienced there, but he had no true attachment to the house. It had seen him at his lowest, at his most subjugated, but he had never laid eyes on it and had no desire to do so. He wanted it gone. He wanted it stripped from the earth, until all the stones were nothing but sand, and until the wood was burned to dust.

He wanted to tear down all of the Death Eaters also, especially those who had ever laid a hand on him. He wanted to rip them apart. He wanted to dig down into them and hurt them, the way they had hurt him. He wanted to break them.

Harry glanced up at the tower where Moody had imprisoned Bellatrix and forcibly uncurled his hands from the fists they had formed.

He should pay her a visit as well.

* * *

“Is he… supposed to be that close to them?” Ron shifted uneasily on his feet, watching as Hagrid took another step toward the fenced area surrounding the three Romanian Ridgebacks. 

Charlie turned his head and then grinned. “Yeah, he’s fine.”

“Really? That fence… it’s awfully shabby. Wouldn’t hold in a kitten, I wouldn’t think.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and nudged her brother. “Ron, have a little more faith in your brother. I think he knows, if anyone does, how to contain a couple bloodthirsty dragons.”

“Actually, no,” Charlie answered, still smiling. He had his hands buried deep into the pockets of his denim jeans, and a new bracelet of pointed teeth swung around his wrist. “A bloodthirsty dragon can’t be contained. You saw what happened with that Hungarian Horntail at the Tri-Wizard Tournament – snap goes the magical iron. Same would happen with them,” he nodded his head toward the dragons that held Hagrid’s rapt fascination, “if they took a hungry fancy to anything.”

“Then…” Ron shifted again, hand inching toward his wand pocket. “How…?”

Charlie nodded in the other direction, where, unseen by the dragons, there was a padlock of several hundred goats. He had already had to charm the pen to open only for himself and a handful of other trusted caretakers – too many of the young students, particularly second and third year girls, had tried to ‘free’ the goats. Charlie didn’t want to think about what would happen if the dragons saw the hundreds of goats frolicking about the school grounds, free and untended, muddled about with all the students and such. 

“Keep your dragon with a full belly and all is well. Run out of goats…”

Ron shuddered. “But Hagrid, I mean, he’s awfully close. They won’t, you know, snack between meals?”

Charlie laughed out loud and shook his head. “Hagrid isn’t stupid.” At the raised eyebrows of his two siblings, he lifted an eyebrow. “He isn’t stupid, certainly not enough to get eaten. He may be enthusiastic enough to buy dragon’s eggs from mysterious strangers, or raise Blast-Ended Skrewts, or keep a giant three headed puppy where any three inquisitive Gryffindors might find it, but, if you’ll notice, he’s never had any problems himself. He’s never turned up without an arm, or with a giant bite-mark out of his arse, eh?”

“Not yet,” Ron muttered.

Ginny glared at him and looked back at the dragons, which watched Hagrid with a kind of lazy indifference as they basked in the afternoon sun. The looked remarkably content, like pampered house cats, but it was just as easy to imagine them tearing into an army. “About the dragons, when are you going to send them out?”

He pulled a hand from his pocket and smoothed it across the back of his neck, where the sun had a habit of burning him, leaving his skin continuously itchy and freckled. “When I get the word from Harry, I suppose. That’s what McGonagall told me. She’s got her hands full with the castle, so she’s letting Moody and Harry call the shots about any attacks. At least until Dumbledore returns.”

“Anyone know when he’s coming back?” Ron glanced at his sister, as if she might have his schedule at hand. “McGonagall might be okay putting all this on Harry, but I don’t think it’s doing good things for him, especially now with what’s happened to Michael and Cho. Have you seen him lately? He’s all bruises around his eyes and pale, but it’s more than that. It’s like he’s…”

Behind them, the three dragons moved suddenly, hissing low as they rose to their feet, their tails swishing in sharp arches, and the largest of the three lifted his head to let loose a fierce roar into the sky. Hagrid jumped backward and Charlie had his wand out, his back and shoulders tensed, his legs set apart and sturdy. With his eyes trained on the dragons, Hagrid stumbled backward toward them, and then he looked at Charlie with wide eyes.

“Yeh got them, Charlie? Something’s scared the life right out of them. Must be somethin’ big,” he warned as he drew out and clutched at his umbrella and Charlie gripped his wand with the same intensity.

However, just as suddenly as they had roused, the dragons settled. They huffed out smoky dragon breaths of adrenaline release, and they settled back to rest against one another, curling together drowsily.

“What – what happened? What was that?”

Charlie shook his head as his let his body relax once again. He slouched back against the wall, giving an impression of ease, but his mind was trained on his dragons and their behaviour. There were few things that could aggravate a well-fed, sun-drunk dragon, and as no one was visibly stealing from their dragon hoard or endangering an egg or a hatchling, it could only be one thing.

There was dark magic at Hogwarts.

* * *

Bellatrix had not yet talked. Moody insisted she wouldn’t, not without what he referred to as ‘encouragement.’ The aurors had people for this, he said, and he had gone to firecall them. It would take them time to arrive, and so Moody had insinuated that anyone with the inclination might have an attempt at her, though entering the room in pairs was something he had strongly suggested. Snape had provided a potion that deadened a person’s magic temporarily, but Bellatrix was a fighter – she would still be extremely dangerous. 

Harry stood outside the door to her cell, a cheerfully sunny little room in the Gryffindor tower, as he considered his options. He hated her for all that she had done to him, to his friends, to his family. For what she had done to Sirius. He wanted to rip her apart and make her feel what it meant to have everything she loved gone. He wanted her to have nothing left.

Snape had somehow known and had caught up to him before he’d ascended the stairs to the tower.

“Don’t,” he’d warned and had gripped his fingers into Harry’s arm. He had been in his lab too much lately; his face was colourless. “Leave it for someone else. This is – it is a very different thing from the other side, Harry. It won’t bring you any kind of peace.”

He wasn’t looking for peace though. 

He tapped his wand to the center of the large knotted symbol carved into the stone and the symbol unravelled to uncover a door, which opened to allow him into the cell. 

It was warm in the room, smelling of sunlight, clean surfaces and freshly laundered bedding. The lock snapped shut behind him and the door disappeared, leaving Harry standing in a room with no exits save the two windows leading to a plunging demise. Bellatrix sat on one of the two plush, burgundy chairs by the unlit fireplace, with one leg tucked under her body. Her hair, dark with streaks of silvery white, spilled down her shoulders, and the profile of her face was smooth and perfect. She turned her head and looked at him wordlessly. Her lips were blood red and her eyes were hard and furious.

He closed his eyes for a moment and looked at her in his mind. As with Voldemort, her magic was a sickly colour, green and yellow and purple, like a deep bruise. She was extremely powerful, as even with her power paralyzed by the potion, she had still managed to maintain the glamour she used to ensnare so many. Behind it, Harry could see what she used so much energy to hide – her dark hair gone limp and grey, sagging lines around her mouth and eyes, jagged scars across her cheeks and deep, unhealing wounds around her mouth. Her eyes held the same look that Sirius’ had – crazed and desperate and unfathomably hungry. Azkaban had not been kind to her.

“Come to kill me?”

It didn’t surprise him that she spoke to him. It was what she had always done before, when he had been Voldemort’s captive. She had never touched him, had never cast a single spell, but she would whisper stories to him in his darkness, stories of those she had tortured, those she had killed, stories about Neville’s parents, about his own parents, about things she had done to Severus when he had been in Harry’s place. Now that their positions were reversed, it did not surprise him that he would be the one to whom she chose to speak.

He moved into the room and sat in the chair opposite her, mirroring her posture, tucking one leg under himself. “No, I’m not here to kill you, but you knew that. Pointless question.”

She smiled sharply. “Yes. It was, at that. Tell me, what do you think you’ll accomplish?”

He shrugged. “I hope that you’ll talk to me and answer my questions, tell me what I need to know.”

Her laughter was as sharp as her smile. “Do you think that I will betray my master? I owe him my life and I have pledged it to him. I am loyal to no other.”

Harry smiled to himself and closed his eyes again to see her as she truly was. From her arm and from the gaping wound of her mark blazed a blood-red chain of magic stretching out the window and away. He could see the flow of magic as it moved back and forth along the chain, as it connected her to Voldemort. The chain was thick with dark red energy, like a fattened leech. 

He heard her chair creak as she shifted uncomfortably in it, and he opened his eyes.

“Loyalty is important. I understand.”

She sneered at him. “And you, loyal to Dumbledore. Following that doddering old man like a fool.”

He didn’t argue. She could believe what she would. Her anger at Dumbledore left her mind open and vulnerable, and he pressed beyond her defences, worming through the tangled brambles of her mind. For one used to Voldemort’s blunt force, his invasion was akin to a scalpel sliding across skin. 

“Dumbledore is a powerful wizard. It isn’t surprising that people would choose to follow him. As people follow Voldemort.”

“And as people follow _you?”_

Harry laughed softly. “Perhaps. Would you follow me?”

She sneered again, showing teeth. “I would rather die.”

“You will,” he promised easily and she jerked suddenly in her seat, as though startled. “You killed my godfather. You tortured the parents of my friend. You tortured _me._ You’re remorseless and dangerous besides. Of course you’ll die.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and Harry wormed farther into her mind as he selected nuggets of information. If Lucius was Voldemort’s right hand, Bellatrix was his left. In her mind, he saw Voldemort’s face, the face of which he had only dreamed, the face that haunted him in the mirror. He was handsome, this new Voldemort, having reclaimed his stolen youth – by stealing it from others, he saw. He shone with magic and power, and his angled face bore a sensuous mouth and high cheekbones, but yellow, slitted eyes, like a snake.

“What of Azkaban?” She cut into his exploration of her mind. “Surely you do-gooders prefer to send us back to that place than to get your hands dirty.”

He shook his head. “Clearly not good enough. How many of you have escaped? It would not take you long to escape again, I’m sure. I’d have considered the Dementor’s Kiss for you, but I’d rather do it myself.” And with that, he borrowed her spell and swept a glamour over his own features, twisting them into the image of a ghostly Dementor. Bellatrix paled and her foot slipped from beneath her to hit the floor.

He lifted the glamour with a shake of his head. “But I won’t kill you, Bellatrix. After all, you’re almost family.” And he smiled.

Bellatrix shivered and twitched, and she reached a hand up to scrape at the base of her skull where Harry had found a secret cask of information: the names of Death Eaters and of supporters, the movement of spies, and locations where Death Eaters met and where they planned to attack. He went deeper, abandoning finesse, and Bellatrix dug at her skull, pulling hair from her head, screaming a desperate cry. He took everything she had to offer, and when he pulled back, she slumped down and slid from the chair to pool on the floor in a heap of unconsciousness.

Harry stood and crouched down over her. He brushed a hand over her face and pulled her glamour away, and then swept his hand against her arm. The magic there was strong. He knew he couldn’t pull the mark from her arm, but what he could do was unravel the chain of energy that linked her to Voldemort.

The chain of red energy snapped like an elastic band and disappeared from the room, pulling with it all remaining magic from Bellatix. Her skin sank down against her skull, paper-thin and dry and splitting at her mouth and nose. The wounds at her mouth stank of infection.

He levitated her to the small bed and laid her head down gently on the pillow, letting her grey, lifeless hair spill out around her. 

When she woke, he thought to himself as he left the room, she would choose the southeast window.


	20. Chapter 20

Snape picked himself off the floor of his dungeon laboratory, set his robes to right, and went about cleaning up the mess.

The arm of his robe had burned clear away. The scar beneath raged a red so bloody and throbbed with such pain that it felt as though it was newly imprinted into his flesh. Voldemort was angry. Extremely angry. Snape did not know what had caused it, but he was exceptionally glad not to be anywhere close to the man. Voldemort’s rage had managed to provoke such intense pain, even at this distance, that it had caused Snape to collapse unconscious against his boiling cauldron, sending the whole lot crashing to the floor. 

He found his wand, which had sprung from his pocket and rolled under a corner of his worktable, and he set the large, cast-iron cauldron back on its feet and cast a scouring spell across the floor. Fourteen hours of careful and diligent potions work, gone to waste. He was glad he had not fallen into Harry’s potion, as it was nearly ready, would be so by nightfall, if all went well, and he certainly didn’t have the time to begin again.

His body shook from Voldemort’s cry and he felt nauseated and ill. He would give it an hour, perhaps two, and then restart the healing potion.

Snape left his lab and stripped from his outer layers on the opposite side of the door, leaving the clothing in a heap by the door. The house elves were forbidden to enter his laboratory, but since the incident and subsequent fallout of early 1987, his office had been declared fair game to their meddling. No sooner had he dropped the heap than it disappeared. In his stained trousers and ruined shirtsleeves, he headed directly to his liquor cabinet. Two shots of Bartholomew’s Burgundy Bourbon, and he finally released a long, heavy breath.

From her perch on his chair, Hedwig let out a querying sound, and Snape turned to look at her.

“Long day,” he said simply. He stripped from the rest of his ruined clothing and dressed quickly and minimally in clothes he kept in his office for off-chance disasters, in clean black trousers and a soft white button-down. Over this, before he ventured into the world, he would put on several more layers, a stiff vest, an austere jacket, and long, voluminous robes, but for now, he kept his comfort and went to sit in his chair, letting his head fall back to touch the owl’s feathers.

She tilted her head and clacked her beak, shifting her footing, and Snape closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “No. There’s certainly no need to bother him. He is busy enough by far without having to run to my side for every…” He sighed again. “He is busy enough. I will see him later. Tonight.” 

Their nights together had been few and far between, had been nearly non-existent. Save the night before, Snape had only caught glimpses of Harry out windows and across fields and down hallways. He reminded himself often that it was a war, and that he was busy, that they were both busy. He reminded himself that Harry seemed to think that he loved Snape, that he, in fact, seemed to want Snape, as unbelievable as that might be. He reminded himself that he had gone forty years without needing Harry by his side. He reminded himself, quite sternly, that he was Severus Snape, that he didn’t need anyone, that he certainly didn’t miss anyone, let alone Harry Potter. Snape reminded himself of these things, but he was tired and lonely, and he had always been tired, but lonely was quite a new thing.

He supposed he might have been lonely as a very young child, but he had quickly learned that being alone was preferable to being in company, and when one wants to be alone, one isn’t lonely.

Snape looked down at his hands, folded carefully in his lap, and smiled bitterly, and then he stood and laughed quietly at himself, while the owl gazed back at him curiously, her head tilted and her eyes wide.

“Well. Let’s find him, shall we?”

She hooted loudly in agreement and flew circles about the room while he retrieved his many layers and dressed in them, shielding himself for the world. Hedwig hooted again in pleasure and perched heavily on his shoulder, digging her claws into his thick, unyielding layers of cloth. She nipped at his hair, tugging it fondly, and he smiled and opened his door.

Trelawney’s ghost stood outside his door, staring around herself with a bemused expression, seemingly lost. She turned to look at him as the door opened, and her face broke into a wide grin.

“Severus, dear, how are you?”

He stepped through her, closed the door, and kept walking.

“Severus? Severus!” She floated along the hallway, following him closely. He could hear her panting for breath, as if winded, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. Forever posturing, would it never cease? How many years had he longed for this woman’s death… How stupid he had been. In death, she was far, far worse. He should have wished for his _own_ death.

Hedwig hissed and the ghost made a startled sound.

“Goodness, that creature is possessed. You should have that checked. Wouldn’t want it to get worse. Why, I remember once, I knew a man whose cat became possessed by the spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte. The poor thing didn’t know what to do with itself. It was really quite disastrous for the furniture, as you might imagine.”

Snape growled under his breath as he climbed the stairs to the main hall and pushed open the heavy door.

“How are you, Severus? You never said.” She floated beside him, keeping pace despite his best efforts. Her hair kept brushing against his face, leaving trails of icy tickles against his skin, which he forced himself to ignore. “I haven’t seen terribly much of you lately, dear. Are you quite well?”

Snape clenched his teeth and headed through the Great Hall toward the small exit hidden in the anteroom behind the main table. It lead out toward the side gardens, and he knew that Harry often spent much of his time there, for it was where Moody and McGonagall had set up a large war tent.

“You seem pale, Severus dear.” Trelawney laughed and then continued, “Of course, so do I. But you, at least, aren’t dead. Not yet anyway.” She stopped still in the doorway, directly in his path, and she held out a hand toward something only she could see.

Snape walked through her again and then growled angrily to discover that someone had stacked the anteroom full of crates and boxes. A narrow path wound through the crates, but he had far too much self-respect to wedge himself through that mess. He brought out his wand and the boxes began to arrange themselves in high stacks against the walls.

“Oh, Severus, they’re so beautiful…”

He glanced back at her in irritation and found her staring into dead space, her expression as soft and awed as her voice. Her hand seemed to trace something in the empty space. She smiled.

“And so powerful. Your blood, his blood, and oh! The Snake and the Poison will make you _immortal.”_

Several boxes dropped to the floor, spilling out contents that exploded in tiny puffs of blue and green smoke, as Snape turned to stare at the ghost who startled as if from deep sleep. She blinked and looked at him, taking in the smoke and the upturned boxes, and her face crinkled in confusion.

“Goodness, what happened here? What a mess! Can’t you move things better than that, Severus? Honestly.”

She shook her head in disappointment and moved past him, out the still-closed door.

Snape turned his head to follow her, and when she disappeared through the door, he cursed loudly and pushed through the ruins of boxes for the door.

It opened into sunlight and Trelawney was nowhere to be seen.

“Bugger all,” he said sharply, and McGonagall, exiting the large tent directly ahead of the castle’s exit, shot him a hard look.

“Severus, there may be children about.”

He growled at her as his eyes scanned the area again, unsuccessfully, for the alleged seer. Only twice in life had her predictions been worth the air they used, both of which had had disastrous results, but her ghostly status had imparted upon her, as well as everyone else within ear’s range, predictions of uncanny accuracy.

It was not the first that Snape had heard of _the Snake and the Poison,_ and he was unsettled to have the specter of that prediction return to him. He had been seventeen and nearly free of Hogwarts and had only just recieved notification that his mother was once again overnighting in a muggle hospital, when he was approached by a cheap, street fortune-teller, smelling of the same sort of wine his father drank when he could not afford beer. _The Snake and the Poison will make you immortal,_ the fortune-teller had told him and had clung to his sleeve with a desperation Snape had assumed was owing to whatever coin he might offer in exchange for the pitiful prediction. He had shaken off the elderly man, but had been unable to shake the prediction with the same ease.

The Snake was likely Voldemort. And the Poison – it was what he did best. Voldemort had loved his inventive poisons. Severus had thought the prophecy spelled success for both Voldemort and himself, by his master’s side.

The outcome hadn’t been quite so successful. Certainly, his experience as a Death Eater hadn’t equalled immortality. If that prophecy had, in fact, reflected his time with Voldemort, it had drastically shortened his life-expectancy. He had no desire to be drawn into prophecies and predictions once again. They were a siren’s song for those who placed their faith upon them. Albus Dumbledore had always been a fool for them, each more destructive than the last. The old man had taken a infant of prophecy and raised it to die a hero’s death, and had then decided to throw sexual torture and subjugation on top of that, as if Harry had not already resigned himself to death.

No, Trelawney and her predictions could go hang for all Snape cared.

He shook his head and turned back toward McGonagall. “Where is the war hero now?”

“Planning,” she replied and tossed a glance over her shoulder, past the command tent, toward a small, scraggly-looking tent which housed the whole of the Weasley clan. The eldest Weasley boy had been sent out some time ago on one of Dumbledore’s secretive missions, yet to return, and the rest kept by Harry’s right hand, save the one child who remained sequestered at the Ministry. 

He had avoided the tent thus far and had no desire to venture within. It was filled with Weasleys. And while he could think of worse places to be, it certainly held no appeal whatsoever. He nudged the owl, still seated on his shoulder, and she nipped his ear warningly and took off through the air into the open doorway of the Weasley tent.

“What does he plan now?” Snape asked McGonagall, who sighed with all the long-suffering of a woman who clearly wished she had retired some time ago.

“Goodness only knows. Something to do with the wretched dragons, I believe, and with whatever the blasted twins have been planning, for all the good that’ll do us.”

“As they have managed to redirect their miscreant tendencies into a successful enterprise, perhaps they might yet prove formidable foes for the Dark Lord. They were certainly that for the faculty during their time here.”

McGonagall’s lips quirked into a smile. “Why, Severus, that was very nearly complimentary. You’ve gone soft.”

“I have done nothing of the sort.”

“Ah, but you have, my friend.” She tilted her head and the sun glinted off the silver of her hair. “It’s a relief to see you happy, Severus. I do admit, I had my reservations about your, ah, your connection to Harry, but it does seem to have done wonders for you both.”

“My _connection_ to Harry,” Snape repeated as he stared down at her, and she coloured under his gaze.

“Oh pish, leave an old woman alone,” she elbowed him and her eyes crinkled in a smile. “I was an unfortunate vintage by the time the Sorting Hat fell on your wee head, and I’ve gone full vinegar at this point. The boy is half your age. That is no secret, and these things are no longer en vogue. You’re well set that he’s now of age and the Ministry will no doubt let him write his own rules if this doesn’t all go pear-shaped. Some will find fault with that, the age difference, I mean, but I’ve known you since you were nothing more than a dark wisp of a child, and this is certainly the healthiest _connection_ that I have ever seen you fall into.”

She reached up to pat at his cheek, a liberty he would never have allowed had they not been hidden from view by the castle wall and the large tent. He could tell she was well aware of the weight of her presumption. He did not shake her off, but rolled his eyes instead, and the corners of her lips rose as she gave him a knowing smile.

“You may keep your opinions to yourself, you old tabby,” he told her and her smile widened. “I have more important things to do than listen to you prattle on.”

“I would expect you do, with a young man like that.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but her expression gave away nothing untoward.

“As I said, he is with the Weasleys in their tent, but don’t monopolize too much of his attention today. From what I’m to understand, we’ve a long day ahead of us and a much longer one tomorrow.” She patted his arm and disappeared into the castle. 

He took a deep breath and marched into the Weasley’s tent.

As typical for a wizarding tent, the interior was deceptively large, and as ramshackle as one might expect of a Weasley domicile. The furnishings were eclectic, although warm and inviting, if one cared for that sort of thing. Harry sat at a heavy wooden table, along with Ron, Charlie, the infamous twins, and their mother, and to a head, they all looked up in surprise to see him enter. Perched on a Victorian china hutch, Hedwig let out a low cackle and he shot her a level glare, traitorous beast.

“Severus,” Harry stood and smiled at him. “Hi.”

Snape stopped still and, for a moment, allowed himself to be dazzled by this powerful, beautiful creature who smiled at the sight of him, who had, only the night before, been taken apart by his mouth and by his hands, before he remembered their audience. He swept his eyes over their faces and was annoyed by the soft look on Molly Weasley’s face and the knowing look shared by the twins. He glared at the twins and ignored Molly. She had come to his aid enough times in the past that he graced her with indifference rather than disdain.

“Harry, if I may have a word with you?” He glanced again at the Weasleys and narrowed his eyes as the twins grinned at him. “Alone.”

“Anything you say to Harry, you can say to us. We’re all family here, Severus,” Fred saluted him with his cup.

George elbowed him sharply in the side. “Speak for yourself. There are things we definitely don’t need to hear. Squishy things. Anything to do with pants.”

“George! Fred! Mind your manners, for the love of Merlin. I am sure that I raised you better than that!” She nudged at Harry’s shoulder. “Go on, Harry dear. I’ll keep the tea hot.”

Harry nodded and, as he stood, he turned to Charlie, and said, “I’ll see you later, yeah? We’ll want to send them out before their evening meal.”

Charlie waved him off with his cup. “There’s time yet. They’re ready whenever you are.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

Harry rounded the large table and Snape spun on his heel and left the tent. He made an abrupt left and led Harry to the side of the tent, hopefully far enough to keep them out of ear’s range, although with the twins, Antarctica might not be far enough. He was well-aware of their ongoing efforts to patent their Extendable Ears. They were, thankfully, still a controlled product for the time being.

Harry moved into him as he came to a stop – his hand held Snape’s arm and he leaned up for a kiss, which Snape couldn’t help but return, despite their public location. His own hand came up and stroked against Harry’s cheek, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest as he pulled back and looked into Harry’s bright eyes. He was a fool for this boy. An utter fool.

“Are you okay?”

Snape blinked at him for a moment and then shook himself. “Yes. No, I am, I was –” He stopped and sighed, and he rubbed at his forehead as he took a step back. “The Dark Lord has sent a message across the Death Eaters. He is… He is extremely angry, more so than I have felt in a very long time. I don’t know what has prompted it.”

He trailed off as Harry’s eyes slid sideways and then sighed at the look on his face. “What have you done now?”

“Bellatrix is dead.”

Snape froze for a moment. They had only captured her the morning before. It was rather speedy for a trial, even a battlefield one. “Did you – did you do this?”

Harry shook his head, his mouth slanted in a miserable downturn. “Not… not directly? She…” He took a deep breath and Snape could see a faint tremor in his hands. “She deserved to die. She was a terrible, terrible person. There was no heart in her. None. There was only sickness. Deep, rotting sickness, all the way through her. She deserved to die.”

“How?”

“I – I broke her connection to Voldemort. He’d tethered himself and his magic to her, through her Mark. She could use his magic through it. She was so strong. Moody had given her that paralyzing potion, but she had kept her glamour so she was still dangerous. I tore it out of her, his magic, and sent it back to him. I…” Harry faltered and looked away. “I took what we needed from her mind. I stripped her of her glamours and her magic and her connection to Voldemort. They… they found her this morning. She had, um. She jumped.”

“From the tower.”

Harry nodded.

“Bellatrix Lestrange has killed herself because of you… because you stripped her of her powers.”

Harry dipped his head and, as his cheek flushed, he scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I know it’s a bit not good. But it felt right at the time? She was such a terrible person. She really was. Putting her in Azkaban wasn’t going to do anything. She was just going to escape again. You know she would. And she was never going to talk. Not to say anything useful anyway. She’d talk and talk and drive us all out of our – ”

He took a deep breath again and looked up at Snape. “I didn’t really kill her. I just… I let her choose. I know it’s not… I know that that’s a pretty slim point but –”

Snape reached out and collected Harry against him. Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest. Snape could feel it reverberating in his own ribs. “No, no. You weren’t wrong. If anyone deserved to die, it was certainly Bellatix. It’s a relief to know she is gone. She was… She was not well.”

“You aren’t… Molly was really disappointed in me.”

“This may come as something of a surprise to you, Harry, but I am not Molly Weasley.”

Harry’s lips turned upwards hesitantly. “You might look good in an apron.”

He gave him a long look and Harry’s smile broadened, as though a sliver of sunlight after a long night.

“I thought you and the Weasleys were friends now.”

“What on earth could lead you to that belief? I have no strong apathy toward them, save the infernal twins, but _friends_ is most certainly a stretch.”

Harry smiled. “I thought for sure that you and Ron were friends now.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “That is a significant stretch. I would better say we have a mutual short-lived tolerance for one another.”

The young man grinned. His eyes shone. “Fine. And Ginny?”

“Miss Weasley? What of her?”

“How do you get on with her?”

Snape shrugged. “Decently.” She was a fair student, seemingly dedicated to her studies and self-improvement, and with an interest in potions besides. He could very nearly excuse her from her Weasleyness. 

A secretive smile tugged at Harry’s lips and he pushed himself upward to take Snape’s lips gently with his own.

Snape cleared his throat as they parted. His heart was a traitorous beast. “Minerva made some allusion to a plan involving the dragons?”

“Mm, yes. I’m sending the dragons out tonight to torch the Summer House. I’m hoping they won’t have too much of a forewarning. _He_ won’t be killed, but it might reduce their numbers somewhat.” Harry shook his head. “He’ll retaliate. I think if we manage to destroy that house, we can expect the attack tomorrow, perhaps even by dawn. He found some way around the wards once. I can only assume it wasn’t a fluke.”

Harry looked up at him and asked, “Is that potion ready? That, uh, that special potion? You never did tell me exactly what it was for.”

“I’m certain that I did.”

“Well, remind me? I gave some pretty personal bits over to it, so… I ought to know what that’s about.”

Snape glanced around himself. In the distance, he could see several people on brooms flying over the pitch, but there was no one nearby. He took a halfstep closer and lowered his voice as he said, “It’s a potion of my own devising, based in part on the disused _Felix Conubium,_ which, when consumed by the two individuals for whom the potion was crafted, would provide the pair with success on, originally, their nuptuals. I have tinkered with the formula, enhancing it with aspects of _Felix Felicis_ and the now controlled _Iunctu Praecantatio,_ which will allow us to create and share a pool of magic. If all proceeds as expected, we will both benefit from enhanced magic and a hefty dose of good fortune, which should last two to three days. It may, in fact, join our thoughts so we may act in tandem. That is one potential effect of a well-crafted _Iunctu Praecantatio,_ after all.”

Harry blinked twice and then a beautiful smile curled his lips. He reached over the short distance and laced his fingers between Snape’s and pulled their shared fist to his chest. Snape could feel Harry’s heartbeat against his knuckles.

“You _invented_ a potion for me?”

“For us, yes,” Snape nodded. “We will need all the luck we can manage, I believe.”

“We will, at that,” Harry’s smile slid from his lips and he ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair, which now fell nearly to his shoulders. While he kept it to himself, Snape missed the short messiness of his previous hairstyle. The longer style lent Harry a shadowed look. The dark circles under his eyes seemed darker and hollower – he looked quite haunted. It did not agree with him.

“ – will be ready by tonight?”

“The potion? Yes. It ought to be ready shortly after the evening meal, although if it is bottled properly, it should keep for another fortnight. But, if what you say is true, the timing is fortuitous.” Snape raised the hand that wasn’t clasped within Harry’s and touched his fingertips to Harry’s jaw briefly. Harry closed his eyes, but before Snape could lean in, Mad-Eye rounded the corner of the tent and glowered at them both, and so Snape stepped back and reluctantly shook his hand loose.

“I expect you will be occupied for the remainder of the afternoon, but can I expect you will allow yourself time by this evening?”

Harry smiled at him, ignoring Mad-Eye completely, who harrumphed noisily. 

“It may not be until late, but yes, of course, I will be there, Severus. And tomorrow night…” He trailed off and his eyes slid away again.

Yes, Snape thought, tomorrow night. By then, it would be a different world entirely, regardless of the outcome.

* * *

Harry watched as Snape disappeared into the castle and he tightened his hand into a fist, as though he could capture the electric feeling Snape’s touch had left in his fingertips and keep that feeling locked away beneath his skin. He wished that feeling was enough; he wished he could somehow amplify it and make it loud enough to drown out how much his skin craved another’s touch.

He had accidentally caught his own reflection in the mirror that morning and his heart had pounded so loudly in his chest, he was sure he would wake Snape, who slept on in the adjacent room. He could see Voldemort hidden within his own gaze, dark, slitted eyes behind his own, staring back at him with a proprietary smirk dancing in the corner of his lips. There were times when he would almost swear that his hands, his movements, were no longer his own. He found himself gripping onto his medallion, with no memory of reaching for it, or, worse yet, he found himself standing in the field and overlooking the growing army, as though mapping them. He felt as though he might be losing his mind entirely.

He wished he could go back, far back, as far back as he could, and escape who he had managed to become – but he couldn’t imagine at what point of his life he could restart where it would not all end up such a disaster once again. Was this future so inevitable? Had he been born for this? Was Dumbledore right? Had he truly only been born to be the foil to a man that no one else could kill? Could he not have made other choices and have managed to not feel so empty, not feel so bruised and exhausted, and not feel so… damaged?

Harry gave a minute shake of his head and turned his attention to Moody, who also stared after Snape, but with an ugly sort of curl to his mouth.

“What do you need, Moody?”

“Boy, I have no place to stick my foot into your business –”

“Well, we can agree on that, at least,” Harry cut him off sharply. His fist tightened against his thigh again.

Moody took his flask from his jacket to take a short quaff of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of hand and said, “Well, it’s your life, I suppose, but that man has always been a strange one. A bitter brew.”

“Amazing,” Harry snapped back at him as his patience broke. “Please, tell me more about this man I know nothing about.”

Moody laughed, a dry, cracking sound, as though it was rarely produced. He took another, deeper drink from his flask and pocketed it again.

“Like I said, it’s your life, lad. It’s no skin from my nose if that’s the arse you want to chase. I’ve seen better arses in my time, is all, but it takes all types, they say,” Moody shrugged dismissively. “Well, now that’s over and done, Firenze has just arrived at the war tent and is looking for you. Afterward, we’ll be needing to go over with Hooch the plans for her unit, and then I’ve got word that the Merpeople have some sort of queen who wants to talk to you for whatever good that’ll do us. And I’ll be needing to know when those dragons are going out, and how, exactly, we’re expecting to get them back afterward. Do dragons come when you call? Does that Weasley have a whistle for them?”

Harry took off his glasses and pinched at the bridge of his nose as Moody listed his schedule for the afternoon. He slid the glasses back onto his nose and, with a resigned nod, said, “Let’s get on with it then.”

* * *

Neville spent the majority of his afternoon with Professor Sprout. They’d catalogued each greenhouse and then had done their utmost to soothe the plants’ agitated spirits. Plants, like animals, knew when disaster was imminent, and so Neville had spent a significant part of his afternoon convincing his plants that they would not be trampled, or set on fine, or crushed beneath a collapsed house of glass. 

It approached evening, as he catalogued Greenhouse 17, when he felt something bump against his arm and looked down to find a scrap of parchment, folded into the shape of a miniscule frog. He tapped it with his wand, and the parchment unfolded to reveal two words.

_Stars below._

He brushed his hands against his thighs and stood slowly, rising from a crouch that he had held for long enough, his ankles protesting the sudden movement. He picked up the significantly longer piece of parchment on which he had written out the contents of Greenhouse 17 (four varieties of tomatoes, seven of peppers, three of sage, as well as borage, calendula, marigolds and nasturtiums, some of which were magical strains, most of which weren’t), and rolled it up tightly. He would deliver it to Madam Pince for the security archive before he answered Dumbledore’s call. The note hadn’t been written in red ink, thus likely wasn't an emergency summons, although the timing would indicate otherwise. 

Dumbledore had always had the most dramatic of timing. He had been away on his mysterious mission for weeks only to return now, on the eve of what would likely be a vicious confrontation.

He wanted to put his faith in Harry, he wanted to believe in him and their chances, but in satisfying Dumbledore’s prophecy, they had ruined him. He was a shadow of his former self, and Neville hated himself for it. Harry had come to his defence time after time, and Neville had ruined him.

Draco kept trying to remind Neville that he shouldn’t hate himself – he should hate Dumbledore – the one who had put his faith in the prophecy, who had orchestrated people as though they were pawns on a chessboard, who had allowed Harry to be captured. Who had manipulated them all so skillfully and then blackmailed them into silence. Draco hated Dumbedore and he did so with a seething undercurrent of emotion, carefully banked, that would one day break at precisely the moment Draco decided was best timed. That was a thing Draco could do, but Neville’s emotions were forceful and wanted to be expressed. He couldn’t conserve his feelings until the appropriate moment the way Draco could, but he had been forced to do just that and the result was that his anger and disgust had begun to bleed within himself and were slowly poisoning him with self-loathing. He couldn’t help it.

One day, Harry was going to learn about the prophecy and he was going to kill them all. They had ensured that he would be put in a position to break down the walls around his full magical potential, and now he was the most powerful wizard since perhaps Merlin himself. What guarantee did they think they had that Harry wouldn’t turn that magic on them when he learned of their betrayal?

None. What they had all done was unforgiveable.

Neville didn’t have any illusions that anyone would speak in his defence either. The only ones who might were the same people who he would meet in that small room beneath the Astronomy Tower, and they would all be in the same boat.

He left the library behind and, as he neared the Astronomy Tower, encountered Remus, and Neville offered him nod in greeting. The man did not look well at all. He was pale and drawn, with dark, purple hollows beneath his eyes, and his scars stood out a deep pink. 

“How are you?” Neville asked him as he scratched at a recessed stone with his wand. The door swung open for them.

“Tired,” Remus answered and rubbed absently at one of the long scars along his neck. “I’m not particularly in my element. War, any sort of conflict, has never been my forte. Were it not for the times in which I have found myself, and for the people with whom I have associated, war would never have been a thing I sought.”

“I don’t think anyone seeks out war, not anyone in their right mind.”

Remus’s lips turned up and his small laugh had a bitter tone to it. “Well, I wouldn’t say he was ever in his right mind, but Sirius would have loved this. I can do war, if I must, and I have done. I’m no coward – I’m a Gryffindor and a Marauder besides, but Sirius… Sirius could fight like a demon, and honestly, he loved to do it.” Remus shook his head. “Sirius hated to be bored and when he was, that was when the worst of him emerged. He always had a bit of a cruel streak, a viciousness that I could never match, not that I wanted to do so. But war, battle… it may be many things but it is not boring. He was well suited to it.”

Neville didn’t quite know how to respond to that, and Remus seemed to sense his hesitation.

“You wonder how I could stand by someone with such a viciousness to them? How I might be able to love someone who could find joy in the ruin of others? First, tell me,” Remus tilted his head and offered him a wry smile, “How _is_ Draco these days?”

Neville flushed and opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn’t certain, when Hagrid pushed into the room and stomped to one of the undersized wooden chairs, which creaked dangerously under his weight. 

Blind to the strange tension in the room, he said, “The dragons were just sent off, then, poor things. Beau'iful creatures, they are.” 

“Are you worried about the dragons, Hagrid?” Neville asked, grateful for the interruption to Remus’s question. 

He and Draco were… Well, they were something. He wasn’t entirely sure what that something was, and even less sure about Ginny, but he knew the press of each of their lips against his own, and he had bruises on his hips from Draco’s tight hold as they had kissed and kissed again. Ginny had been right – the potting shed was an _excellent_ location for a snog.

Hagrid settled back further into the chair and said, “I’m a tetch worried. So’s Charlie, even, but these are dragons. They don’t mind a bit o’ death. They like it – like the killin’. All good fun for them. Goats aren’t much challenge, so you can tell they’re excited to be sent out for somethin’ with a bit more bite to it.”

“A bit of viciousness to them, then?” Remus asked with the same wry smile on his lips, and Neville dipped his head as he felt himself flush again.

“Oh aye. More ‘n a bit, I’d say,” Hagrid returned easily, innocent to their previous conversation. “Can’t judge that. They’re dragons. It’s what they were born to do. I understand a bit, meself.” And he lowered his voice, as if the room was not already secure and soundproof. “I _am_ half-giant, yeh know, and giants – they like a bit o’ destruction too. Not me, I like a good cuppa and a night in with Fang at my feet or good friends at the door, but I’m won’t deny it anyone else, if it’s what they were born to do.”

“Besides, which,” Remus interjected, “I imagine that viciousness is rather sexy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hagrid glanced over at Neville and raised his eyebrows as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The wood made an ominous creaking sound. “The… the giants? Sexy?”

Remus’s eyes widened and he cut his hand throught the air, but Hagrid didn’t notice the frantic gesture. 

“Not t’judge but I’m not sure I follow yeh there, Remus. Full-blooded giants are…” Hagrid’s nose wrinkled. “They’re not very good at bathin’ or, or… or anythin’ to do with hygiene, really. But!” Hagrid shrugged and gave Remus a friendly smack on the shoulder. Remus pitched forward against the table under the blow. “I can see how tha’ might be sexy for some. I’ve still some contacts in amongs’ them, if you want t’meet one or two. Didn' know you was interested!”

Neville buried his face in his hands and shook with restrained laughter. 

“Did I miss a joke?’ Draco said as he slid into the room and settled into the seat beside Neville, who felt himself flush warmer against his palms. He wondered if he could manage to keep his face covered for the entirety of the meeting.

“By the looks of things,” Moody’s gruff voice broke in, “I’m glad to have missed this supposed joke.”

Neville heard him flick open his flask and take a deep drink, and Draco elbowed him gently in the side.

He swallowed heavily and then lifted his face from his hands. While Snape was still missing from the table, Dumbledore now stood at the head of the table and his hands, covered by thick leather gloves, rested on the back of his seat. His face was grey and worn and his long hair hung lank around his face. Neville had never seen him look as exhausted as he did now. The skin of his face seemed as thin as paper, as though he was wasting away. Neville felt his voice catch in his throat, holding back whatever greeting he might have expressed.

“Thank you for joining me,” Dumbledore rasped in a voice thick with dissuse. 

Neville glanced around at the others, and he could see that they all, in their own ways, were shocked by Dumbledore’s appearance. Where had he been? What had happened to him?

Below the line of the table, Draco’s hand slid over to Neville’s knee and gripped it with a hand that trembled ever so slightly, and then he asked, in a deceptively steady voice, “Do we wait on Professor Snape?”

“No. Severus has other matters to attend to tonight.”

Dumbledore began to round his chair, but they could all see the tremor shaking through him. Remus moved as though to get up, but Dumbledore waved off the assistance with one hand while keeping a firm grip on his seat with the other. His robes hung from him as they would from a mannequin. 

“I trust you have all kept well during my absence?”

“You left us with very little instruction. We’ve made the best of it, as we could,” Draco told him. 

“As well you have. As well you have,” Dumbledore smiled at him. “I have yet to speak with Minerva to update myself on the preparations, but things do seem to be coming along well. I’m pleased.” He settled gently into his seat and he seemed smaller, somehow, than he had before he had left.

Neville glanced around the table again, unsure if someone should comment on his appearance, but Draco’s fingers dug into his knee and he bit back the questions poised to spill over his lips. 

“Bellatrix is dead,” Moody broke in to the uneasy silence. “That’s something your boy managed while you were off gallavanting or whathaveyou. Tore her mind in two and ripped near all of You-Know-Who’s secrets out. Filled a penseive to overflowing. If he manages to kill him tomorrow, we’ll still have everything we need to hunt down the rest of the Death Eaters and take down their networks. Who knew the saviour would turn out to be a top-rate mind-flayer? Too bad he’s going to die tomorrow. We could have used him in the aurors.”

“You absolute _arse.”_ The words escaped Neville before he could stop them. “How callous must you be? He isn’t here to die for you.”

Moody blinked at him and then reached for his flask and opened it one handed. “I’ve heard two prophecies that indicate otherwise. Why are you here, if you don’t believe in them?”

And Neville, quite suddenly, had had enough.

“Because _he,”_ Neville jabbed his finger out toward Dumbledore and ignored the urgent grip Draco suddenly had on his leg, “failed to mention your goddamned prophecy until after I had stolen Ministry secrets for him, after I had committed fucking _treason_ for him, and then, when I told him I wanted nothing to do with him or this bloody group, _he_ told me that that was a shame, but being in this group was certainly better than being in Azkaban, wasn’t it?”

Neville pushed himself out of his chair and towered over the seated Dumbledore, who watched him back unmovingly. “Wouldn't it be terrible if my Gran ended up in Azkaban for harboring a terrorist? That was what you said, wasn't it? Because threatening me wasn't enough, you had to go for her too. Merlin only knows what you have over Hagrid, because he _loves_ Harry. He’d die for Harry. He’d personally kill a _hippogriff_ for Harry if he had to.”

Through the haze of his anger, he heard Hagrid mutter, “I’d kill a hun’red fer Harry, I would.”

“And you,” Remus flinched as Neville rounded on him. His anger tore through him and he bled out his rage. He couldn’t staunch it – nor did he want to. This had been building in him for nearly four years and it was a relief to let it loose. “What would his parents say if they knew you were doing this to him? What would his mother say? What do you think _Sirius_ would say?”

He turned his anger back at Dumbledore but found the man observing his angry outburst as if nothing unusual were happening at all. The placidity of his expression, the calmness of his posture, the easiness of his hands folded on the table – Neville abruptly lost all wind from his sails. His shoulders dropped and he knew, very clearly, that nothing he said or did would have any effect on the Headmaster. His anger did not even merit the rating as an inconvenience. He was a fly and Dumbledore was a dragon.

He knew someone who might listen. There was still one person who had power, power that even Dumbledore could not ignore.

Neville spun on his heels and stormed out of the room. He couldn’t be certain where Harry might be – it was late, he wouldn’t still be out in the war tent. Visiting Hermione in the infirmary, perhaps, but most likely, he was in the dungeons.

He had no idea where Snape’s private rooms might be, but he knew who could find them, and he knew where to find her.

He had gotten only as far as the end of the hallway before he heard footsteps running up behind him, and Draco caught him by the arm and spun him back against the wall, mashing him against the portrait of two women sharing a single slice of pie.

“Let me go,” Neville pushed back, but Draco gripped at his forearm with one hand and held him pinned at the shoulder with the other. “I’m done. I don’t know how I made it this far, but I am done. I have to go tell Harry everything. He has to know. He has to know what we did to him.”

“You are the _epitome_ of Gryffindor, you absolute idiot,” Draco said and he pressed into Neville, full-body, and slid his hips in against Neville’s as he captured his mouth. 

Neville gasped and arched into the sudden heat of Draco’s body against his own, and Draco took the advantage and pushed his tongue into Neville’s mouth, slick and possessive, and his hips jerked forward as the electric feeling slid through him. Dimly, he was aware of the sharp _oh my!_ from the two portraited women, but he pushed his hands into Draco’s fine hair and grabbed fistfuls of it to pull Draco closer. He tipped back his head and gasped as Draco slid his mouth down his jaw and bit at his neck, and his vision greyed as a hand slid under the edge of his shirt and along the small of his back.

“Wait,” he gasped but Draco pulled his head down and took his mouth again, and Neville’s head spun as he felt Draco press in against him, at the hard weight which thrust against his hip. His own cock jumped against the thigh Draco gave him and his hands scrabbled at Draco’s hips to hold him as closely as he could manage.

The sound of a door opening brought them apart sharply. Draco turned to look down the hall and Neville stared at the state of him – his lips were bruised and bitten, his cheeks and neck were flushed and his eyes were blown wide, the grey near black with lust. He looked illegal, a marble statue brought to life and turned wanton. 

The image of Draco spread out across dark sheets came to his mind and he closed his eyes and thumped his head back against the portrait.

“We should go elsewhere,” Draco said and Neville opened his eyes again.

“We need to find Ginny.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose and he pressed in again, his eyes fixing on Neville’s mouth. 

“A wonderful idea,” he purred and Neville felt his whole body flush hotly.

“No, no, I – ” The Draco lying across the dark sheets in his mind was joined suddenly by a slim, freckled body, red hair spilling across Draco’s pale chest. Neville shivered all over.

“Merlin, no, I mean,” he sucked in a deep breath. “She’ll know where to find Harry.”

Draco nipped at his jaw and said, “Potter isn’t invited.”

“No, I,” he set his hands on Draco’s shoulders and gave him a small push. “We need to tell him, he needs to know.”

Draco took his face in his hands to still him. “What good will that do, at this point? What will he benefit from that?”

“He deserves the truth!”

“Maybe,” Draco’s eyes held his own. The silver-grey of his eyes was flecked with strands of dark blue, like an ocean storm. Neville’s breath caught in his throat. “But what good will it do him? He’s already cut himself off from Dumbledore. He already knows he’s been groomed as a weapon to kill the Dark Lord. He already knows he’s likely to die. What good will it do him to know that the Headmaster sacrificed him further to the altar of prophecy?”

“He should know what I did,” Neville whispered, and Draco closed his eyes briefly.

“It will only hurt you both. But yes, we can tell him. Afterward. He does not need more distraction now.”

Neville slumped back against the wall and he closed his eyes against the truth of Draco’s words. 

“Come,” Draco slid his hand to the nape of Neville’s neck and pulled him away from the wall. “Let’s find Ginny and have the house elves deliver us a camomile. You can both come to the Slytherin common room, if you wish. It’s near empty, save Crabbe and Goyle, and those two shouldn’t be left alone for very long.”

Neville nodded tiredly and he let Draco take him by the arm and guide him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the chapter numbers. Only 3 more to go!


	21. Chapter 21

They were as ready as they were likely to be. Harry was willing to concede that Moody had done a good job, and the castle and its people were prepared, at least strategically. He doubted many were emotionally prepared, with some as young as twelve counted among the assembled army. For some, this would be their first fight and it was shaping up to be cataclysmic. There was no way to prepare for such a thing emotionally. They would let it come – and hope to survive it.

There was no question in his mind that Voldemort would attack by the morning. He could feel it. There was a part of himself, a part he knew wasn’t truly himself, that was _excited,_ like a racehorse at the gates or a nocked arrow, ready to spring. He could feel it thrumming through his veins, dancing along his nerves, with an anticipation that was nearly sexual. It disgusted him, the way his body craved the destruction that was soon to come. It wasn’t his, that feeling. He didn’t want it. But he could feel it, nonetheless.

He watched with Hagrid and Moody as Charlie sent off the dragons. As soon as they took to the sky, they seemed to dance through the air with one another, so joyful were they to be in flight and, as Charlie explained, off to destroy. As much as he wanted that house to burn, their glee was uncomfortably close to Voldemort’s excitement, and Harry had to swallow down the rising bile in his throat. 

As soon as the dragons were gone, Moody left without a word or a backward glance, which was fine with Harry. The auror was competent but not someone Harry wanted to befriend. He could tell that Moody saw him as the weapon, not as a person, and he was thoroughly done with that.

He turned back to where Hagrid and Charlie were still watching after the dragons and realised that hadn’t seen much of Hagrid since… since _before._ It was likely on him – he hadn’t gone to visit at Hagrid’s hut in months and hadn’t sought him out at all. He was too preoccupied with the war, with Snape, with his own twisted thoughts. He hadn’t seen Ron in days and hadn’t visited Hermione in longer. He’d been avoiding Remus. He knew that everyone could see how tainted he had become, they were all unsettled by him, uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to have to endure that, but these were his friends and they were about to face death for him. He didn’t want to go into the next day having his friends think him neglectful. This would be how they would remember him. He needed to do better.

He stepped over to Hagrid to ask him how he had been, but the moment Hagrid noticed him approaching, his mouth twisted into an ugly expression and he shifted awkwardly, turning himself away from Harry as he dug his hands into his pockets to pull his massive coat about his body. He glanced at Harry, but his eyes darted immediately away, turning down toward the ground where he dug a deep furrow into the earth with the toe of his large boot, his body twisting further away.

Hagrid had been his very first friend, before even Ron, before Hedwig, and Harry had seen him through many an emotional moment. Hagrid had always worn his heart full on his sleeve, and so his obvious shame hit Harry in the chest like a renegade bludger and he nearly stumbled backward as his fears were confirmed to him. He knew now why he had kept his distance. Ron was likely relieved to not have seen much of him in the past few days, to not have to pretend in the face of Harry’s downward turn, and Harry was glad of it too. Ron, like Hagrid, had no talent for hiding his feelings, and if Hagrid’s shame was a bludger, Ron’s would be ten times worse.

He swallowed around the hollow feeling in his chest and reminded himself that it didn’t matter. When he was gone, what they thought of him, what stories they would tell of him, none it would matter.

He pressed a smile over the bitterness in his heart and said, “Well, I think it’s time for me to turn in early. I’ve done all I can this evening, I think.”

Charlie turned toward him and returned the smile easily and carelessly, with an immunity to feeling that Harry envied, and he stepped forward to knock Harry’s shoulder lightly with a balled fist. “Chin up, Harry. We’ll get the bastards come morning. They don’t know what they’re in for.”

Harry nodded and took a step back. He glanced at Hagrid and darted his eyes away as he saw that Hagrid was still staring down into his own hands rather than meeting Harry’s eyes, as though he couldn’t bear to see what Harry had become. 

He tried to smile again, although it felt loose and tremulous, and he turned away before they could see more of it.

He had managed to make his way through the Great Hall and nearly across the Entrance Hall before he heard someone call his name, which he took to be a small miracle. The castle was a crowded place, lately. He swept a hand over his face before he turned, but then nearly stumbled over his own feet as he found Dumbledore standing in the shadow of the staircase, as though he might have been there the entire time. His outfit was oddly subdued, a dark navy which blended into the shadows, and his face seemed quite pale, almost ghostly.

Harry couldn’t help but shake his head at the Headmaster’s gall. “Excellent timing,” he sneered. “Did you orchestrate all of this too, or do you have some little birds who keep you in the loop?”

Dumbledore stood silently for a moment, his face cast in shadow, before he slid forward and Harry felt his mouth drop open. Dumbledore’s face was ashen and he had dark hollows beneath his red, tired eyes. His skin was so pale it seemed nearly transparent.

“What happened to you?”

A small, ironic smile turned up the corner of Dumbledore’s lips and he said, “Many things, dear boy. A lifetime has happened to me, several times over.”

Harry lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t feel equipped for Dumbledore’s riddles at the moment. He felt raw and hollow, scraped empty. “Right. Of course. Well, I assume that you have some last minute wisdom for me? If so, now would be a good time. I have places to be.”

“Of course. I imagine Severus is waiting on you.”

Harry’s eyebrows lowered sharply as he took a large step forward, putting him within an arm’s length of Dumbledore. “Don’t,” he gritted between his teeth. “Stay out of that. You don’t get to manipulate your way between us.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore smiled at him, unruffled, but his eyes were a strange, icy blue – hard and emotionless, flat. “Your life is your own. I want nothing more than for you to be happy.”

Harry rolled his eyes at that and wrapped his arms tightly about himself so that he didn’t throw them up in disgust. “Did you have anything to tell me or are you lurking in the hall only to be eerie? Because you’re doing well at that.”

Dumbledore smiled mysteriously again, and he inclined his head toward Harry as he took a step to the side, taking him toward the Great Hall. “I wanted only to tell you that I’m proud of you, dear boy. You’ve done well. You will do well tomorrow as well. I have every confidence in you.”

He turned once again and walked away, disappearing into the Great Hall, and Harry stared after him for a long moment, before he shook his head and turned away himself, heading down toward a narrow, circular stairwell that took him into a dark, cobweb-ridden part of the dungeons. He had no desire to run into anyone else on his way to Snape’s room, but, unfortunately, while this path kept him from prying eyes, it took him down a familiar dark hallway.

Halfway down the hallway, he stopped at a secluded alcove, where a small kneeling bench sat unused, and he stared down at it. It was coated in a thick layer of dust, the upholstered fabric long past grey and freying. It looked much smaller than he remembered.

In his pocket, his hand tightened on his wand until he heard the wood creak in protest.

Dumbledore was proud of him, he said. Proud. But there was no truth to that, Harry knew. Everything that man said was lies, all manipulation. How could anyone be proud of what he had become? Hagrid certainly wasn’t proud of him. Everything since Sirius had fallen into the veil, everything before that too, perhaps his entire life, had been one terrible decision after another. He was a failure, and he only hoped that when he faced Voldemort again, he could finally succeed and actually die properly.

He continued to stare down at the bench and his heart thudded loudly in his chest. He could feel it pounding in his throat. It was just a small, wooden bench. There was no danger to it, short of him tripping over it. The wood looked old and soft from the dampness of the dungeons. No one would miss it.

He flicked his wand at it and flames burst across the fabric. He watched for a moment or two as it burned, sending sooty smoke up the wall of the alcove, staining it black. The smell was horrific – wet, mildew-ridden wood and burning dust – it was overwhelming. The thing was charred now, blackened and twisted in upon itself. The wand shook in his hand as he doused the flames and he brought his boot down firmly onto the ruined bench. It broke apart under his foot and became a scattered mess of brittle, blackened wood, and he stomped the pieces until it was an ashy smear across the stone floor and he furiously kicked what few pieces remained away into the darkness of the hallway. 

He stared at the mess he had made, strangely short of breath despite the little effort it had taken to destroy a small bench. His heart lept madly in his chest. His fingers shook and he almost missed his pocket as he tried to stow his wand. He stared at his hand as if it wasn’t his own, feeling oddly betrayed by the tremors coursing through it, and then he pulled it into a fist and slammed it against the wall.

Pain blossomed through him, sharp and permeating, and he gasped and cradled the hand against his chest. It looked the same, but felt wrong. He could have broken it, he thought as he flexed it, but he realised in that same moment that he didn’t care. It was a relief to feel the pain. It meant that his hand was his own. Maybe his body really was his own after all, he decided, if he could hurt it.

He flexed his hand again and shook out the pain and then started back down the hallway once again.

* * *

Snape had briefly relaxed his ban on house elves in his laboratory as he had brewed far too many potions to feasibly deliver them to the infirmary without their assistance, but he reinstated it immediately afterward and he had stood protectively over the last remaining working cauldron until they had left. As soon as their tiny fingers were no longer a concern, he bottled Harry’s potion and cast protective charms over the vial.

Of course, he couldn’t be certain of the results – an inherent risk of a newly invented potion – but it wouldn’t be far from his goals either. It would boost their luck and combine their powers, which was all he had intended for it. It was unlikely to have any negative effects, as the _Felix Felicis_ and _Felix Conubium_ wouldn’t allow it, if properly prepared, and his potions were always properly prepared.

He held the bottled potion up to the light. It was thicker than he had anticipated, almost viscous, and it was a deep rosy hue with a golden sheen that reflected the light. The colour was reminiscent of a good Merlot or of the cranberry jelly his mother had typically made for Christmas dinner, which his father would smear across slices of brown bread as though it were butter. The scent had none of the tartness of cranberry but was instead unidentifiably sweet, near to a ripe gooseberry, with a strange otherness to it as well, one that even his trained nose could not classify.

He slid the vial into the pocket of his robes, and then cast his eyes over his laboratory a final time before he left the rooms and locked all doors behind himself. He wondered, fatalistically, if he would see these rooms again, if he would die or if Voldemort would find some way to subvert him once again. It had been a very long time and he was no longer the young, impressionable man he had once been, but Voldemort was persuasive, and when persuasiveness failed, there were a number of other methods he utilized which could sway a person to Voldemort’s way of thinking. Some of which Snape had helped to perfect. None of which he wanted to experience again.

He expected his rooms to be empty and was surprised to find Harry sitting by the sitting room fire, his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped about his knees. His chin rested on his knees and he stared into the fire, but he glanced up as Snape entered the room. His smile did not reach his eyes.

“You’re here earlier than I expected,” Snape said as he hung his outer robes by the door. “I’m surprised Alastor didn’t keep you with the innumerable minutiae he tends to require of those under his command.”

Harry’s eyes thankfully brightened and the smile did not seem quite as false as it had before. “Technically, I think he’s under my command, but you’re right about the minutiae. I was free of him by evening, but he ran me ragged this afternoon. I actually had to meet with some kind of queen of the merpeople? She’s offered to help – by having her people drown anyone who falls into the lake, which… isn’t great. It’s just not a great idea. We should probably try to keep away from the lake tomorrow. I’m pretty sure they can’t tell any of us apart.”

“Alastor retired early? That’s unlike him.”

Harry shrugged as he unfolded his limbs from the seat. “He had told me earlier that he had another meeting. No idea who with. McGonagall? I was sure she went to bed ages ago, though. Maybe with Dumbledore. I saw him, on my way down here. He’s…” Harry shook his head slowly. “He’s strange. Something’s odd about him.”

“More so than usual, I assume.”

A quick grin lifted Harry’s lips and Snape felt his own lips curve in response.

“Yes, you berk. I’m trying to be serious. He’s strange. Something not right,” Harry gestured circularly around his own head, “in his upstairs. And where has he been this entire time? He had nothing to say about that. It probably would have been better if he’d stayed missing until after tomorrow. We have a plan, and I don’t need more surprises.”

“Speaking of plans,” Snape said and retrieved the vial from his pocket. He held it up and Harry’s eyes immediately fixed on it. 

“That’s it?”

“It is.” Snape twisted his wrist gently and watched as the liquid swirled within the glass vial. It left a hint of golden shine against the walls of the vial, which shimmered in the dim, flickering light of the room. It was beautiful, he had to admit. He had invented several potions over his career – a requirement of mastery level – but he thought that this potion might be his most beautiful creation. He had bottled the love he and Harry shared and infused it with every hope he held within his withered soul. There was nothing he could create which could ever compare.

Harry stood and slowly crossed the room, eyes never leaving the potion. His hand rose toward it, but he hesitated, clearly torn over touching it. 

“Is this all you made? It looked like so much more before.”

“The potion is heavily condensed from what you saw, rendering it to its peak potency. This vial contains every drop that will ever be in existence.” He held it aloft and considered it. “Even if I were to replicate it, it would not be identical. Our body chemistry would be different, and thus the potion would be altered. This potion is truly unique.”

Harry turned his eyes away from the potion and blinked at him through his lenses, and Snape hoped that perhaps the true value of the potion had dawned upon Harry. 

“I didn’t…” Harry trailed off, his eyes still wide behind his glasses, blinking like an owl. He reached out a hand again and Snape let him take the vial from him. The golden tones of the potion seemed to glow as Harry held it up for a closer look. Snape thought they were almost a match for the golden flecks in Harry’s green eyes.

“I didn’t realise,” Harry finished and met Snape’s eyes again. “This is amazing. What are you doing teaching here if you can make things like this?”

The question startled a sharp bark of laughter from Snape, surprising even himself. Harry stared as if he had just sprouted wings and then a wide, delighted smile bloomed across his face and his bemused expression was only an encouragement. Snape hadn’t laughed in far too long, and that question was so innocently asked that the humour in his near 40 years of sad, miswritten history was suddenly unavoidable. 

He laughed, completely unable to repress it, until his stomach and his cheeks ached and tears sprung from his eyes. He was glad that he had passed the potion over to Harry, because he could not stop himself from laughing. It sent him double, clutching at his sides, and he stumbled over to his armchair and groped blindly for the arm as he sank into it. His face felt like it might split in two. He hadn’t laughed in far too long.

Harry stood over him with the same wide, confused grin and sparkling eyes.

“What did I say?”

Snape shook his head, unable yet to form words as the laughter stuttered into chuckles and gasps for breath. He reached over and took hold of Harry’s shirt and gave a firm tug, and Harry fell forward at him, his eyes widening and his hand clutching the potion protectively toward his chest. Snape pressed his free hand against the potion, anchoring it against Harry’s chest, while he tugged Harry further down until he could kiss the idiot to the same breathlessness his laughter had left him in.

Harry gasped into his mouth, but this quickly turned to moans as Snape wrapped his free arm around him and pressed them closer as he kissed him. Harry, mouth occupied and one hand still trapped within Snape’s between them to secure the potion, shifted to arrange himself over Snape, knees bracketing Snape’s legs, in turn bracketed by the plush armchair. 

“Hey,” Harry gasped between kisses and he tilted his head back to allow Snape to trail his mouth down the column of his neck. “Does this, oh! Does this remind you of, of – ah – of anything?”

Snape clasped a hand to Harry’s buttocks to encourage the rocking motion Harry had begun above him. It felt outstanding – the shifting feel of Harry’s lean, toned thighs against his own, the rise and fall of his arse against Snape’s hand – and so he almost missed the question, so fixated was he on Harry’s undulations, and then he nearly chose to ignore it. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be reminded of anything that had come before. He wanted to feel this moment for what it was – a heavy, welcome, delectable weight over him; the knowledge that he was wanted, that he was here with someone who knew him and wanted him, despite everything. 

In fourth year, James and Sirius had, upon discovering his rather sad pining for Regulus, laughingly told him that he was far too ugly for anyone to ever touch him with anything but pity, that he’d have to invest in blindfolds if he ever wanted someone to fuck him, and he wished he could go back in time to inform his poor, desolate self that this wasn’t, in fact, true. He doubted his younger self might have believed that it would be James who would, somehow, produce a young man capable of loving him, of seeing the best in him despite all attempts to disprove it, but it would have been a nice dream to hold on to – that, eventually, someone might actually find him desirable. Someone other than the fucking Dark Lord, thank you.

And so, caught up in the sensations of the moment, he felt inclined to distract Harry away from his question, but before he could, Harry pulled back a little, lips red and wet, and said, “The chair, our first kiss was in a chair, exactly like this.”

Snape tightened his arm around Harry and kissed him again. The potion sloshed within its protective vial between them. 

He wished he could go back to that first chair, that room. He should never have stopped kissing Harry. Should never have listened to a werewolf’s advice. What did Lupin know of matters of the heart? He should have told him to mind his own business, to leave and let them continue as they were. Or, as it had been the werewolf’s own room, they should have left together. Harry had only been sixteen, nearly indecent even by pureblooded wizarding standards, and he knew why Lupin had discouraged them, but had he not listened to that damnable wolf, none of the last year would have transpired. Harry would never have been taken, would not have had such a deep bruise imprinted onto his heart. Voldemort left an unfortunate impression. It had taken him nearly ten years to rid himself of it, and Harry had been free of him for only a handful of months. 

And how had Bellatrix known to be waiting that evening? She was not a patient creature, he could not believe she had simply waited about Hogsmeade for an opportunity which might never have presented itself. Someone had to have tipped her off that Harry would be in Hogsmeade, would be wandering about upset and alone. But who had known that, save himself and Lupin? For all that Lupin was in Dumbledore’s pocket, Snape doubted it could have been him. Lupin was not a terribly good actor, with his guilt and shame written across his face as clearly as his scars. 

Had it been Dumbledore? How had he known, when it had been so very spontaneous? Harry had succeeded at wandless magic and they had gone to the werewolf safehouse (which Snape had not even known was in existence – but Dumbledore must, there was little the man did not know). Lupin had arrived and Harry had run, a predictable enough response if one knew Harry well. How significant a hand had Dumbledore played in setting up that series of events? He had invited Lupin to teach at the school. He had ordered Harry to take Occulmency lessons from Snape. He had deliberately looked the other way when Harry had so drastically misinterpreted his own advice regarding control. He had said nothing when what had built between Harry and Snape must have been obvious, certainly to a man who paid attention so closely. How long a game was the old man playing? It must have been Dumbledore who had informed Bellatrix of Harry’s vulnerability, but would he truly stoop to so low an action for the sake of his prophecy?

Snape pulled back from their kisses. The potion continued to slosh between them distractingly and they ought to get on with it before it was too late into the evening. He didn’t know how it might immediately affect them. But the moment he sat back from their embrace, he found himself thoroughly distracted and entranced by Harry for a moment, at the flush which spread across his cheeks and down his neck, at his swollen lower lip, at his fogged glasses, knocked askew, at his bright green eyes, in this moment shining with joy rather than shadowed and guarded. Harry’s face had matured drastically over the last few years: his jaw was square and firm, his cheekbones pronounced. There could hardly be a soul who would not declare Harry handsome, and in this moment, this handsome creature was his. 

His hands tightened against Harry, whose eyelids fluttered flatteringly as the movement fitted them against one another closely. Snape knew he could not hope to have Harry forever, no amount of amends would ever allow him to deserve _that,_ but he had him now, for tonight, and what more could one desire but that.

The vial pressed against his sternum painfully, demanding his attention, and he pulled back from Harry regretfully to draw the potion out from his hand. Harry stared at it, as it seemed to glow in the space between them, and he used his now-free hand to set his glasses to right. He made a face and pulled them off and held them up to the light, and then sighed.

“Who needs vision? Not me.”

Snape glanced at Harry’s glasses and rolled his eyes. he commanded and he smirked as Harry blinked down at his glasses, now clear of smudges. “One day, perhaps you might remember that you are a wizard.”

Harry’s mouth twisted at that, in a way Snape immediately knew he should not examine. He did not want to set him back into yet another despondant mood, certainly not tonight. He held up the vial again, twisting it in the light in a way designed to draw the eye, which it did. Harry slid his glasses back onto his face, eyes never leaving the potion. 

“So…” Harry wet his lips and shifted on Snape’s lap, setting himself more securely in his seat. “How do we – Do we just drink it?”

“I believe so. Unlike other potions, this is meant to be shared, similar to the _Felix Conubium_ from which I have sampled. That potion, if you recall, is meant to imbue luck onto a pair on their wedding day, to ensure a successful marriage. It requires the couple to consummate their joining in order to take effect.”

Harry grinned and wriggled in his seat. “So we need to fuck? Oh no.”

“Brat.” Snape gave him a fond smile and slid his hand beneath Harry’s shirt, tracing his fingertips over his hip. “But yes, likely so.”

“Right here?” Harry’s eyes darkened and he shifted again, sliding himself down against Snape in an unmistakable movement, the muscles of his thighs bunching under the denim of his jeans. Arousal burst through Snape again, thick on his tongue, and his mouth felt dry, his hands suddenly desperately hungry for skin.

“Yes,” the word hissed through him as Harry thrust down against him and he grasped blindly for sense. “But what I want from you requires a change of positions.”

Harry grinned wildly and kissed him hungrily before he slid up to his feet and shimmied from his jeans, with no hesitation whatsoever. He held out his hand and Snape took it, allowing Harry to pull him to his feet before Harry began attacking his clothing, something that required more finesse than the t-shirt and jeans that Harry favoured. He set the vial of potion down on the side table and pushed Harry’s hands down to the clasps of his trousers, away from his vest, while his own fingers flew down the small buttons with far more ease. He could vanish them, he supposed, but he might not get them back, in the state of mind he was in.

By the time he had his vest and shirt open, Harry was making his task more difficult as he had managed to open up Snape’s trousers and was stroking him with a tight and enthusiastic grip. He leaned into Harry for a moment, panting, and then unravelled his shirt and vest from his torso, tossing them down to the floor with less care than they deserved. He kicked his trousers, now pooled by his feet, away, and pushed Harry back down into the chair before he lowered himself down over him.

He _accio’d_ the vial of lubricant from the bedroom and it smacked into his hand with enough force to sting. He uncorked it and poured some into his hand, too much as it dripped down onto Harry’s stomach, but this was no loss as Harry gathered it up and stroked himself with it. Snape prepared himself quickly, it didn’t take very much anymore, and was about to lower himself down onto Harry when Harry stopped him with a slick hand against his chest.

“Wait! The potion.”

“Bloody hell,” Snape swore and tossed the vial of lubricant away before reaching for the potion. It seemed an even more brilliant ruby colour than before and glowed with a golden light as he unstoppered it and held it out to Harry.

“Drink.”

Harry took it and tipped it back, drinking two mouthfuls, leaving precisely half for Snape, who snatched it back and emptied the vial. It tasted like sex, absolutely the way Harry’s skin tasted after they had had one another, like sweat and semen, but also something elusively sweet, like fresh grapes or an overcooked apple. It was thick on his tongue and seemed to coat his mouth and throat liberally, and it was too easy to compare it to the feel of swallowing Harry’s release.

He leaned forward and kissed Harry desperately, plunging his tongue in to capture more of the potion, and Harry seemed equally hungry to taste it from him as well. He could feel it spread through him, heat blooming along his skin as though he might burst into flames.

Harry’s hips thrust upward and his cock slid up Snape’s arse wetly. Snape shivered at the feel of it and let himself thrust downward into it several more times before Harry finally took himself in hand and sheathed himself in Snape.

Snape groaned loudly, far more loudly than was the norm – he felt drunk and desperate for Harry. He braced his hand on the back of the armchair, just above Harry’s head, and impaled himself with a rather brutal drive – it felt absolutely imperative for Harry to be inside of him, to clutch at Harry and hold him and kiss him and devour him until it was near impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. 

Harry recited a litany of profanity as he clutched at Snape’s hips and drove himself upward, pistoning into Snape with the same brutal ferocity. This was not their norm, Snape knew. They were passionate, certainly, but not like this, not with this desperation, as if they must fuck or die trying. It was overwhelming. He wasn’t entirely certain he would survive this, but he was extremely willing to die for it. He could think of nothing more worthwhile than this moment.

Their cries echoed from the walls and the armchair beneath them creaked and thumped against the floor as though possessed. It would be thoroughly wrecked before the night was done, as wrecked as he was likely to be.

He could feel his orgasm building in his fingertips, shivering along his nerves, along his scalp. He felt as if his hair might catch fire from it. His cries were mortifyingly loud, but thankfully echoed in tone by Harry, who clutched at him, his hair thrown wild about his face. He could only look similar, but he hadn’t two thoughts to spare to it as the feeling built in him, coalescing into a fire in his spine, centering in his belly. He tried desperately to hold on, his fingers tearing into the fabric of the armchair, but it was a losing battle. His skin felt electric, every hair standing on end. 

“Harry,” he groaned, barely coherent, and Harry’s hands gripped into him, biting into his skin. They slipped against one another, their sweat-soaked skin allowed him little traction – he felt as though he were holding on by magic and sheer will. “Harry,” he said again. “Harry.”

“Severus,” Harry answered his cries and his fingers gripped into his thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He would wear them as badges of honour, he would tattoo them into his flesh if he could.

Harry stared up at him, his eyes so dark as to have never been green, his mouth open and gasping, his face flush, his hair wild, and Snape knew that this was because of him, this was his, this was all his, this was all for him and only him, and he felt himself shatter, his insides splintering into fragments, sharp and cutting and sparkling as lightning across the sky. 

He cried out. It sounded purely inhuman, animalistic, and Harry groaned and pulled Snape down against him, thrusting into him as through propelled, his hips pistoning, his hands clutching, until he too froze and cried out, his face twisting into a grimace, and they slumped down into one another.

“Holy shit,” Harry breathed, his voice broken and thready, and Snape gasped into his neck, desperate for air. His chest heaved like a racehorse and his thighs trembled. His hands shook and his arms felt thin and insubstantial, ghostly for all the support they allowed. His muscles protested. He was going to be sore, that was certain. What better way to enter battle, he thought and laughed, chuckling feebly into Harry’s shoulder.

“That was…” He began, and felt Harry nod against him.

“Yeah, it was.”

Harry’s hand stroked over his back, gentling him, and he finally sat back and groaned as he felt Harry slip from him.

“How, uh…”

He looked down at Harry, who bit his lip and stuttered, “How soon can we do that again?”

Snape felt a sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue, how old did Harry think he was, but his cock stirred at the question. He stared down at himself as though betrayed, and then huffed out a hard breath and laughed again.

“This time in bed, yes?”

Harry grinned up at him.

* * *

Voldemort’s eyelids flickered in dream and what a pleasant dream it was.

He was young, with smooth, long muscles and skin that prickled with sensitivity – his entire body was alive. He was in bed with his lover, naked and writhing with in the white sheets, warm with the heat of their bodies. The air was damp and chill, smelling of wet stone and smoke, and smelling of sex. His lover’s hands were on him, stroking down his thighs. His lips were on him, laying kisses to his ankles, to his thighs, to the hollows of his hipbones. His hands had a touch of callused roughness although his fingertips were gentle as they explored his skin, revelling in touch and exploration.

He reached up to run his fingers lovingly through dark, silky tresses and then he tugged firmly to urge that head down so he could meet thin yet responsive lips with his own. This man was his – entirely his.

“Severus,” he whispered, and met those lips again.

Voldemort smiled, baring his teeth, and felt Harry smile with him. He turned Harry’s face into Severus’s neck and scrapped his teeth against him. He opened his mouth against his pulse and bit down, and Severus gasped and arched into him, and he ran his hands possessively down Severus’ spine, feeling the delightful rise and fall of old scars beneath his fingers. Reminders of another’s hand, buried deep into skin and bone. Severus had always been so wonderfully responsive. He ran Harry’s fingers up and down the worst of them, losing himself in old memories. 

And then suddenly, Harry’s hands stilled and Voldemort felt the unfortunate change in their connection, as though he were cushioned by deep water. He now had all the influence one might have on a statue of solid stone.

Beneath Harry, Severus slowly noticed the change and pulled back. Through Harry’s eyes, Voldemort could see his former conquest, his pale face flushed inelegantly, his eyes blown wide in arousal, his thin lips bitten and red. The poor man looked lost, with his dear little young lover pulled back. His hands shook where they rested on Harry’s body as he asked, “Harry… what…?”

Harry shushed him and his mind reached out, searching, and Voldemort slumped back into his seat and allowed himself to be found. It would seem there would be little fun left in this tonight.

_There you are,_ Harry’s voice filled his mind, as sharp as a well-honed knife. _Dirty spy._

“Really, Harry,” he said aloud and his voice echoed in the large, empty room. His mouth stretched into a feral smile. “I wasn’t spying. I was participating.”

Harry shuddered, and Voldemort slid his hands against his own thighs and smiled as he felt Severus move against him and, dimly, as though from a long distance, heard him ask Harry what was the matter. Poor lost Severus, he should offer him comfort. He did not do well without assurances.

_No. You are not wanted here. Leave now._

“Tsk. Before we’re done? Ask Severus, perhaps he’s not ready for me to leave yet. He was enjoying my presence a moment ago.”

Harry growled furiously, and Severus jerked backwards away from him. Voldemort felt him go and regretted the loss. He’d forgotten how responsive his former lover could be, how delicious it was to push him and bend him until his defences crumbled. Severus had always trusted so few, so very few, but he had been so starved for attention and touch, it had been a joy to see him shatter. Voldemort had forgotten how dearly he had missed the man who had _sought_ to be broken by his hand.

_Tomorrow, Tom. We meet tomorrow. Until then, LEAVE._

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open as he was forcibly cast from Harry’s mind. He reeled slightly, the room spinning about him, and he gripped his chair with talon fingers. He had never been cast from a mind before and he found it to be a most unpleasant experience.

He ran his hands down his thighs once again and smiled at his body’s urges, taking those needs and desires and funnelling them down into himself, taking that potential energy and storing it in a well within his core.

He would make use of it tomorrow, he thought to himself as he stood and called for Wormtail. They had mere hours until Harry’s pet dragons arrived on his doorstep.

Voldemort stood to one side as Wormtail cringed around him and collected what few things he didn’t want incinerated. Tomorrow, he thought to himself and it was something of a promise. Tomorrow, reunited with his chosen two, and the world would be his.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took SO LONG to write. I had to rewrite scenes so many times... I think it wanted me dead. Oof. I wanted to have it done this weekend, but that just didn't quite work out.
> 
> But here it is now! I really hope you all like it, ~~please tell me how much you liked it,~~ because I almost died to bring it to you.

Harry knew he was dreaming. He was surrounded by the same shifting landscape as from his previous dreams, the same dilute pink and blue and purple mists and clouds, the same strange sense of being alone and yet being closely watched.

Directly facing him was a line of trees which seems to have been painted by an impressionist, but one who could not be bothered to try very hard, for these trees were patchy and drawn in a single, uniform green. Behind the line of trees, Harry could see something very large and dark and shapeless, which paced back and forth as it tried to find an opening. In previous dreams, Harry had felt sheltered and cushioned from the lurking darkness, from Voldemort, but he now felt hunted. The thing which lurked behind the trees, it hungered. It would devour him.

A hand touched his shoulder. It was stained with red, and as it pulled away, a handprint of blood was left on his shirt. The blood spread down his own arm and across his chest, until his shirt was wet and dripping, sticking and heavy against his skin. He put his own palm to his chest and his hand came away tacky and he looked down and could see that now everything was stained with red, his bare feet squelching into it. It made sticky, wet sounds as he turned to face Dumbledore, who stood behind him, dressed in white so pure, it made his eyes ache, although his hands were dripping with blood.

“Something must be done about this, my dear boy. This has all become quite the mess.”

The dark thing behind the line of trees growled loudly; it was guttural like that of a werewolf.

“Where did all this blood come from?” Harry asked as he plucked his sodden shirt from his chest.

“Someone had to die so the rest may live,” Dumbledore told him, staring down at his own red hands. “A life must always be given, if you intend to take one. Nothing may be achieved without sacrifice.”

“I know,” Harry said. “Me, I have to die. I know.”

“Oh, no. You died years ago, my boy.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “I organized your death myself.” 

The line of trees rattled behind him, scraping together like rusty cage bars, and the dark thing let out a bellowing roar. 

Harry spun on his heels to see the trees buckling under the onslaught, bending toward him like a line of spears. The amorphous dark creature swept over the line of collapsed trees and charged at him, its eyes glowing the sickly green of _Avada Kadavra,_ and it opened its mouth, displaying rows and rows of sharp teeth. Harry raised his arms against it, but it crashed through him, leaving him icy cold, his heart clutching painfully as though held in a freezing fist. His hands pressed to his chest and found the medallion dangling against his breastbone, burning hot and sizzling his fingertips as his hands connected to it.

His knees buckled under him and Dumbledore leaned down and hissed into his ear.

_“It’s time.”_

* * *

Snape woke suddenly as the sickly tug of apparition grabbed him by the belly and he flailed helplessly from what had been a disturbed and twisted sleep, dreams filled with shadowy figures and heavy darkness. His hand scrabbled into earth and wet grass and the tangled cloth of his sheets, still wrapped about both he and Harry, who struggled against the tangle as well, his arms and legs and sharp elbows hampering every effort they made to unbind themselves. 

“Would you desist!” Snape growled at Harry and vanished the sheets wordlessly, heedless to where they might go, and then he sat up and stared about himself.

He was only a few meters from Hagrid’s ramshackled hut, facing down the line of the Forbidden Forest, from which green globes glowed, bobbing and weaving amongst the trees. He turned to take in the rest of the grounds and saw similar lights and dark shadows moving in toward the castle, and he felt his heart seize as he recognized the shape of them.

He recovered his wand from where he had stowed it in his nightwear and he pointed it skyward and set off the school’s warding alarm. The spell shot from his wand with a speed that startled him, as though it were a bullet from a gun, and the sky was immediately washed in red and filled with an ear splitting sound, more than enough to warn the castle’s occupants, who had surely slept as fitfully as he had. 

Snape shook out his hand, which tingled with residual magic, and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Harry flex his own fingers. 

Snape pushed himself to his feet and stared down at himself in disgust. “Did you apparate us to the grounds? I’m to face down the Dark Lord in my nightclothes, am I?”

Harry looked up at Snape and stood slowly, taking in his own underdressed state, and, without a word or even a gesture, much less a wand, he transfigured their nightclothes into an approximation of their daytime attire. Snape, choosing not to linger over the knowledge that Harry had done so wordlessly when he had once struggled to move so much as a cup, examined the result. He still considered himself underdressed without his waistcoat and his outer robes, but the crisp black shirt and trousers were of excellent quality and his feet were encased in thick dragonhide boots, which fit so perfectly as to be a second skin, and it was all certainly an improvement over his worn cotton nightwear. He nodded his thanks to Harry and turned back to the castle.

Hogwarts was now lit from within by thousands of lights. Snape’s alarm spell cast an eerie glow over the grounds, illuminating the shapes of Death Eaters, the light reflecting off their pale masks. In the sky, he saw the shapes of several Dementors descending toward the castle, the air about them blue with frost, and, from a distance, he heard the roar of the dragons. Before he looked back down toward Harry, he saw small shapes take flight from the Astronomy Tower.

The sky over the forest took on a creeping sickly green colour as a cloud of magic spread toward the castle. It mixed with the red of Snape’s alarm spell and began to turn the sky at the outer edges of the grounds the putrid colour of old, diseased wounds. As the cloud spread overhead, it formed itself into the hideous Dark Mark and the air itself began to feel thick and heavy, like the backroom of the Leaky Cauldron after its monthly smoke ring blowing contest.

Snape heard Harry whisper, “It’s time,” and Snape turned on his heels to catch him as Harry swayed dangerously on his feet. The scar on his forehead stood out like an inflamed wound against his pale skin, stark and vibrantly red, and Snape saw that his hands clutched at that damned medallion about his neck, from which he never seemed to be apart. The thing glowed red-hot and Harry’s hands shook around it.

A brilliant flash of light came from the forest, accompanied by a thunderous clap, and Harry shook violently in Snape’s arms at the sound of it, his knees buckling under him, and he slid from Snape’s grasp and sank down to the ground, falling to his knees. His hands remained clasped about the necklace, folded at his chest as if in prayer, and, just as suddenly, a sharp, brutal pain sliced through Snape’s arm as his Mark flared to life.

“Tom,” Harry whispered and Snape’s gaze shot upward, his heart pounding in his throat.

From the shadowed line of the forest strode a man whose skin glowed as pale as moonlight. His robes seemed to absorb the darkness around him, and Snape sucked a whistling breath through his teeth. Voldemort was young once again, sharp and beautiful and dangerous, and the smile on his full lips demonstrated how completely Voldemort was aware of this. He lifted his chin, shadows turning his jawline as sharp as a knife, and he held a hand, palm down, toward Snape, and Snape felt his knees buckle under him as an invisible heavy weight fell on his shoulders, pressing him down. He resisted, locking his knees, and he strengthened the wards on his mind.

“Harry, stand up,” he gritted between his teeth, but the young man didn’t move. He could hear the sounds of the battle as it began, with distant shouts and screams and the clashes of thrown hexes.

“Severus,” Voldemort said, his voice sliding smoothly into Snape’s ear as though they were intimately close. “It has been too long since I have had you fully at my side. I have missed you.”

Snape shook his head, steeling himself. This could go terribly.

“Harry!” He snapped, to no avail.

Voldemort slid forward effortlessly across the dew-wet ground. He moved like a Dementor. The sight sent chills up Snape’s spine and he clutched his wand in his hand. He looked down to where Harry knelt, shaking like a leaf, and he took a step forward, blocking the young man from Voldemort’s immediate path. He would die willingly here, in this moment, if it meant Harry could live free of Voldemort’s grip. He would become another scar on Harry’s forehead, a thunderbolt to stand beside Lily’s. 

“Oh, Severus,” Voldemort laughed, a low sound that sent a shiver through Snape. “Do you think you alone can stand between me and what I desire? Do you think you have that power?”

_Hold tight,_ an oddly familiar feminine voice spoke suddenly in his ear, and an owlish scream pierced the air. Hedwig shot from the sky at Voldemort’s head and her claws scored against his skin, raking bloody lines against his face and scalp. The owl pulled his attention away from Harry and Voldemort cursed loudly as he swatted her away from his face, and then, as she rounded back toward him, pointed his wand at her. 

_“No!”_ Snape took a stumbling step forward, hand raised futilely, but it was too late. Voldemort flicked an indifferent shot of green toward her, halting her plunge and sending her tumbling away in a ball of charred white feathers to hit the side of Hagrid’s hut. She crumpled and lay unmoving, smoking slightly. Snape stared at her and then raised his eyes to look at the man responsible. Though blood dripped down his face, Voldemort simply looked annoyed by the interruption.

Harry stirred beside him, a hand rising to grip Snape’s calf, and Snape startled and looked down at him. Harry stared toward the hut, toward the broken ball of feathers. He shook as he raised himself to his feet, his hand clutching at Snape. “My – ” he whispered, and his wand was in his hand. “He _killed_ her…”

Inside Hagrid’s hut, a dog began baying and a scream sounded from the forest.

Harry straightened and stepped around Snape, standing at his side, and his wand twitched impatiently against his side.

“Tom,” he called. “You should have let me go. None of this would have happened.”

Voldemort’s mouth curled into a smile. His eyes glittered as he replied, words picked carefully, “Are you going to kill me then, little Harry? Revenge for your parents, I suppose? Revenge for _this?”_

Snape watched them, dread forming a hard pit in his stomach. They were reciting the lines from a script to which he had no foreknowledge. 

“Oh yes,” Harry spoke, his voice steady despite the tremors still shaking his body. “This time, I _will_ kill you. You’ve left me no choice.”

Voldemort smiled dangerously, his teeth white in the dim light. “So be it, my Harry.” He lifted his wand and pointed it at Harry.

Snape flung himself between them. “No! No, I will not let you touch him.”

Another slick smile emerged and Voldemort shook his head. “Oh, dear Severus. _My_ Severus. I don’t have to touch him.”

And Harry let out an agonized cry and buckled, his head jerking back to expose his neck to the sky as though an unseen hand had grabbed him by the scar, fingers digging into the bone of his skull.

Snape threw out his arm and sent a hex toward Voldemort. It was immediately repelled, as he knew it would be, but it allowed Harry to break free of the thrall. He sagged back to his knees and gasped for breath. His wand lay on the ground by his knee. 

“We will defeat you,” Harry panted. “You will die. It’s been – ”

“Foretold?” Voldemort finished with an ugly smile. “Has there been another prophecy, perchance?”

Snape’s heart plummeted in his chest, even as Harry sat up and cried, “Yes! There was! And it ensures your defeat. For good!”

“By your hand? By your… love?” Voldemort’s smile widened.

“I…” Harry’s voice cracked and he glanced at Snape, who shook his head slowly. 

“What have you done?”

Voldemort laughed, and, from the forest, Nagini appeared, rearing tall for a moment and hissing before winding herself about Voldemort’s feet. Her fangs glinted, reflecting the dark, blood red of the sky. 

“Everyone has a weakness, don’t they, no matter how strong they may appear. Even someone like Albus Dumbledore has a weakness, mustn’t he? It would simply be a matter of learning it and exploiting it.”

Harry lifted his wand and pointed it at Voldemort, who laughed openly, but Snape could feel the power gathering in Harry as though it were his own, which it was, in some part. His wand hand tingled with power and he could feel it – the rising tide of Harry’s magic which, with the aid of the potion, drew on his own power to swell to levels that must be physically uncomfortable for Harry, although he showed no outward sign of it. Snape could feel it, though – the sharp drain on his own powers left him lightheaded, the world greying slightly in the edges of his vision. He hoped the _Felix_ element of his potion would be enough to ensure he survived the drain. The luck was meant for both of them, after all.

“It doesn’t matter what you did,” Harry told Voldemort, his wand extended.

“Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it matter that your beloved Dumbledore arranged everything for me to such a degree he might as well have served you on a platter?” Voldemort slid forward a step, his eyes fixed on Harry’s. “My darling Bellatrix would not have been in that cesspool of a town had Dumbledore not informed her of the opportunity. Your wolf friend would not have stopped by that evening had Dumbledore not suggested he do so. You would not have found yourself so cosily ensconced in Severus’s own quarters, had Dumbledore not followed my instructions to the very letter. Your headmaster sold you to me as though you were a prize pig at auction.”

“He would _never_ work for you, Tom. I know that much. He wants you gone – everything he does is to see you defeated. Everything.”

“How right you are, my boy. His drive blinds him.” Voldemort took another slow step forward and Nagini hissed as she slithered between his feet. “His love of prophecy is well-known, with the weight he placed upon that ridiculous woman’s words, that prophecy which brought you to me initially. It was easy enough to devise a new prophecy, a tempting one, one which promised a defeat by way of ‘love’ – how could the old man resist? He had, of course, initially thought the answer to the riddle was my dear Severus, who loved me quite well, once upon a time.”

Snape suppressed a shudder as Voldemort turned his gaze on him and smiled. He looked just as he had twenty-five years ago, when they had first met – just as beautiful, just as charming. It was an unsettling sight against the background sounds of the battle.

“That old fool thinks himself so clever, so above the world, so much the better of all others, but he devoured that prophecy. My follower offered it to him as a memory, and he took it into himself whole just as a snake eats a rabbit, just as I hoped he would, but it wasn’t only a memory he consumed, no. Don’t you remember, Severus? The potion you made for me?”

The _Injicio Memormens,_ yes, Snape remembered it. He had once been so proud of it. He had received such praise for it, such reward. A potion which created a backdoor to the mind, one from which even Occlumency could not shield. A strong Legimens could plant false memories within a person’s memory, or suggestions of behaviour. The subject’s field of view could even become infiltrated, and all from a distance, after the initial connection was made between the caster and the victim. 

Oh, he had received such reward, or so he had thought. It had taken very little time at all for him to realise that, while he might have thought he wanted Tom Riddle within his body, his mind was a very different thing entirely.

He had destroyed the research, burnt his notes, boiled away the trial potions and scoured the cauldrons clean. There was no cure, save the death of the caster. He had been freed, when that spell had ricocheted off Harry’s hard infant skull – gloriously alone in his mind for the first time in months. But he was a fool. Thanks entirely to the potion, the formula had been free for the taking from the recesses of his mind.

“I remember,” Snape said and gripped his wand tightly in his hand.

“You’ll find that Albus Dumbledore hasn’t been himself in years,” Voldemort laughed.

“Did you give me the potion too?” Harry’s voice was as tight as a violin string.

“How patient do you think me? You with your small locked box – did you truly think I would wait on you? I took all I needed on your first morning with me, after you licked my fingers clean. So willing, my lovely boy.”

Harry’s mouth twisted into a sickly grimace and he said, “I won’t let you hurt anyone else. Never again.”

Voldemort waved his wand lazily, and the air about them was suddenly stifling, tight and confining. Snape glanced up and saw that Voldemort has cast a bubble shield about them, thick and opaque, blocking everything else from view. Sound was muffled also, the sounds of the battle cut sharply from them.

“Do you intend to stop me?”

Snape felt it before it happened, a sharp jolt to his middle and a heat up his wand arm, just as Harry called out, _“Expelliarmus!”_ Voldemort’s wand flew from his grasp to land nearly a dozen feet from him.

Voldemort stared at his wand for a moment, and then he turned his face back toward them with fury in his eyes.

“If you think I need a wand to see you both to your knees, you are sadly mistaken.” He raised his hand and clenched it in the air, twisting it, and Snape could feel the overwhelming weight on his shoulders as it shoved him to his knees. Harry was brought down similarly beside him.

_Steady on, Sev,_ the same familiar voice spoke in his ear and a shock went through him as he recognized the voice for what, and who, it was. He turned his eyes toward Harry, who glanced back at him, confusion creasing his brow, although he did not react in any way Snape would consider appropriate to the sudden sound of his mother’s voice – a voice that surely was from Harry’s own mind, as it certainly wasn’t from his own. He realised, in nearly the very same moment, that Harry would have no cause to recognize Lily’s voice. 

The pressure on his shoulders lifted just as suddenly as it had begun and he pushed himself back to his feet and held out a hand to Harry, and they both turned back to face Voldemort, who scowled and held up his hand again to clench it into the air, but nothing happened. Snape could feel the pressure, but it was more akin to a feather dropping to his shoulder than a mountain. It was easily resisted.

“On. your. _knees!”_ Voldemort commanded them, his teeth gritted into a grimace, but Snape and Harry did not bend to him. They stood still, Harry’s hand still held tightly within Snape’s. 

_Never again_ , Lily told them with far more sentience than a memory should possess. _Over my dead body,_ she said and then laughed, a sound Snape had not heard since he was sixteen. 

He stared at Harry, whose forehead creased in further confusion, even as his eyes remained on Voldemort. This was no memory, not even something constructed from shared memories. 

“I won’t kneel for you,” Harry said quietly, his voice as steady as an incoming storm. “Neither of us will. Ever again.”

Voldemort turned a tight smile toward Snape and held out a hand toward him. He could remember every blow, every stroke, every touch of that hand. His gut clenched tightly and he took in a deep breath and released it slowly, as Voldemort beckoned to him.

“Does he speak for you, my Severus? You know I will forgive all, if you only join me once again. Come to me,” Voldemort crooked a finger and Snape felt the clutch in his forearm as his Mark was activated. “My side is where you will always belong.”

He glanced down at his arm, covered as it was by his shirt, but, again, it felt as if Voldemort’s command was muffled and dull. He let go of Harry’s hand to roll up his shirtsleeve and the Mark stared back at him, dark and quiet and still. He could feel the pull through it, but quiet, so easily ignored. Drowning it out was another pull, one that swam through his blood and his bones, as if it had rewritten his very DNA, and, a year ago, he would never have believed it, but it was Harry. 

He put his left hand to his stomach, fingers splayed across his shirt, and he could feel Harry through him, steady and warm and powerful. He raised his gaze back to meet Voldemort’s, whose smile was slick, his hand steady and outstretched. 

“No.”

The smile tightened and Snape felt the pull amplify in his arm and felt as his mental shields were tested, but Harry looked at him and, in his green eyes, Snape could also see the echo of the first real love and kindness he had ever known. It swept through him, warm as tea but icy sharp as revelation.

“No,” he said again and stepped closer to Harry. He felt Lily as a physical force behind them. “I have made my allegiances. You have no purview here and never shall again.”

“You see? This ends today,” Harry said and gripped Snape’s hand briefly.

“Does it?” Voldemort’s smile was as sharp as swords as he took a small step backward.

Nagini moved suddenly through the grass at his feet, rearing up toward him, and the last Snape knew was the sound of Lily’s scream before the world went dark and still.

* * *

Ginny dodged a flying curse and darted behind a tall standing rock. Her heart beat like a storm against glass and her nerves rattled. Brooms whizzed overhead. She had lost her own, shot out of the sky and sent spiralling down. Her wrist and elbow were in agony from the fall, and she had strapped the now-useless limb to herself as best she could with her own tattered jumper, but she had to keep moving. She smelled smoke. Someone nearby was screaming, a brutal and agonized sound. And she had no wand, having lost it in her fall. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not at all. 

“Gin,” Neville appeared to her left as though he had apparated directly to her side, and he crouched down beside her, pressing his back against the rock as she did. “Come on. You need to get out of the middle.”

She nodded, eyes wide. Neville looked like heaven. She wanted to crawl into him and hide. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Where’s your wand?”

“I don’t know! It fell when I – I don’t know where it is!”

“Okay, it’s okay.” He grabbed her hand and tugged. “Follow me. This way.”

She gripped his hand tightly and dashed forward with him across the open field, and she tried not to see the fighting. She tried not to see the people already on the ground, tried not to see their charred flesh. She looked to her right, and by leftover rubble of the fallen tower, three Death Eaters circled a young boy. He was white-eyed and crying, trapped with his back against the stones.

“Wait,” she found herself saying, and she tugged on Neville’s hand.

He glanced toward the Death Eaters, and then quickly back behind them, while still trying to pull her forward. 

She dug in her heels. “We can’t leave him.”

He exhaled sharply and then pulled her behind him as he lifted his wand and pointed it at the trio of masked Death Eaters.

_“Terretimagnus,”_ he hissed, showing his teeth, and suddenly the three Death Eaters backed away from the young boy as if burned, letting out petrified screams as they darted in all directions, stumbling and scrabbling in their haste. The young boy blinked, shaking, and then seemed to notice them and he scurried toward them. He folded into Ginny’s side, and she looped her injured arm around his shaking shoulders, although it wrenched her elbow badly.

A hex flew seemingly from nowhere and hit Neville on his upper arm, sizzling on impact. He gritted his teeth and turned his eyes to retrace the hex’s path. Behind them, two young, willow-thin Death Eaters advanced on them, their masks frozen in twin skeletal grins. They held up their wands and Ginny froze again, gripping the boy in her arms.

Neville threw out his arm, wand steady, and commanded, _“Avada Kadavra.”_

The curse shot from his wand and the green light enveloped the two Death Eaters in crackling energy, and they crumbled backwards, falling into one another in a broken heap. Wheat-blond hair spilled out as their hoods fell from their faces.

She lifted her eyes to stare at Neville and then she said in a hollow voice, “We can go now.”

He nodded and got them moving again.

He took them toward the Whomping Willow, so close that she thought they might get hit by the branches, but then she noticed Lupin standing by the hidden entrance at the base of the tree. Lupin crouched as they came closer and pressed his fingers against a small knot of wood, stilling the tree’s violent shudders. Neville, Ginny, and the small boy ducked beneath the limbs and ran toward Lupin, moving past him into the tunnel.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, she breathed deeply and relaxed.

Draco, already with a long cut bloodying his face from his left eye down to his jaw, slumped with relief as they appeared. 

“Thank fucking Merlin.” He came forward and touched her shoulder, peering into her face. “Are you okay?”

She nodded quickly, still gripping the boy’s hand with what was likely a very tight grip.

Draco nodded and turned to share a look with Neville, who reached out and took Draco’s wrist in his hand, his breath ragged.

“What did you see?” Draco asked him, and Neville shook his head. His sleeve was blackened around the hex blast and Draco noticed it quickly, hands moving to push the ragged edges of cloth aside to see the wound.

“Moody and Maeve have the ruins,” Neville said, pain pulling at the corners of his mouth as Draco prodded at the burned skin. “McGonagall, Sprout, and Vector are leading a battalion to the north of the goat pasture and seem to be holding their own. Hagrid, I couldn’t see… He might be in the forest with the centaurs. I heard the dragons but didn’t see them, and the twins are on brooms with Angelica and they’re dropping something that explodes on contact, it’s some multicoloured dust, seems to be choking them – I don’t know what it is but it’s positively wreaking havoc over the Death Eaters. They might just win this single-handedly.”

“Good,” Draco sighed. “Dumbledore?”

Neville shook his head. “Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t get close enough to see Harry and Snape clearly, but they’re with Voldemort. Didn’t _want_ to get close to that. Couldn’t find Crabbe or Goyle, either.” He hesitated, and then said slowly, “Or your father.”

Draco closed his eyes and shook his head. “Never mind him. We need to find Dumbledore.” He reached into his pocket and slathered the resulting healing salve over Neville’s wound, and then touched his hand to Neville’s chest, holding it there for a moment. He glanced at Ginny, who stared at them. She heard every word they said, but couldn’t quite manage to react. The boy hadn’t yet moved either, his hand still held tightly within her own.

“Ginny,” Draco had a hand on her shoulder again. “You’ll be safe here. The Willow will protect you. Take Toby through to the Shrieking Shack. There are other children there too, as many as we could gather, as well as many injured. They could use your help.” Draco crouched down and looked at the young boy earnestly. “Toby, look after Ginny for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” came the quiet response and the boy’s hand tightened on hers.

Draco nodded and stood. “Let’s go,” he said and both he and Neville moved toward the entrance.

Ginny snapped. “You’re _leaving me here?_ To look after the kids and the injured? I can help you!”

“With a broken arm and no wand?” Neville asked and she glared at him.

“I can get a new wand! Someone will have another wand. I can take his wand!” She dropped the boy’s hand and flung her now free hand toward him. He flinched away.

“I don’t have one,” he muttered as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself. 

“Ginny,” Draco sighed. “We need to – ” He was cut off as Lupin called his name and he rolled his eyes toward the entrance. “We need to go. We have to go.” 

“No, no. No, you don’t. You can stay here. Where it’s safe. It’s _dangerous_ out there. Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”

Neville put a hand out and held it against her neck. It was warm and she cursed the sense of comfort it immediately gave her. “We’ll be fine, Ginny. We have to go. This is… we’ve been preparing for this. We’ll be fine.”

“No,” she shook her head. “You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

“But you can,” Draco cut in and she stared at him. “You can know, you can see. _Look._ Tell us.”

She shook her head at that. She couldn’t look; she didn’t want to see. What if they died? She didn’t want to see that. 

“Boys?” Called Lupin from outside. “We have to go.”

“One minute!” Draco almost snarled as he stared at her. “Do it,” he said roughly. “Tell us.”

Ginny bit her lip and, still shaking her head, she reached out and took each of their hands in her one and she looked at them. The vision hit her with a brightness she hadn’t previously seen, vibrant colours and brilliantly clear, as though it had been waiting for her.

She saw herself, her hair pulled back into a knot at her nape. She sat at a glossy wooden table, covered in quills and coils of parchment, with a steaming pot of tea and three teacups to one side. One hand reached for a cup while the other rested against her swollen belly, stroking against the movement within. To her right, she could look out through the window at a long stretch of green lawn and endless gardens.

Ginny shifted her perspective and found Draco in the same home. He stood before a full-length mirror, surveying himself as he dressed in proper Ministry robes. He had a long scar down his left cheek and his hair had been shorn closely at the sides, drawing sharp attention to his cheekbones and his ice-coloured eyes. He looked quite rakish. Neville stepped out from a door to Draco’s left, through which she saw a bed large enough to sleep an army, and Neville smiled indulgently at him before stepping forward to smooth out the shoulders of his robes.

Ginny heaved a sigh of relief and pulled back from the vision and swayed on her feet. Both young men had a hand on her side, holding her up, and Ginny, in that moment, made her decision. She had been hesitating, unsure if she ought to move forward with what she had begun. Merlin knew, her mother wouldn’t approve, her father wouldn’t approve, her _brothers_ wouldn’t approve, but she saw clearly what needed to be. She pulled them both in closely and squeezed them tightly. After a moment, she pulled back and kissed them both in succession, quick, hard kisses, and she gave them each a fierce glare.

“Find me,” she insisted. “When this is over, _find me.”_

Draco nodded and cupped a hand against her chin. “We will. I promise you that.”

Neville nodded as well, his eyes fixed on hers. He hesitated, his lip caught between his teeth, and from above, Lupin called them again, and at that moment, something firmed in his expression, as though a decision had been made. She tilted her head, and he took her face in his hands and pulled her forward sharply into a deep, hungry kiss, and to her side, she heard Draco give sharp bark of laughter. She wrapped her arm around Neville’s shoulders and kissed him back, and she decided that, yes, this would definitely all work out.

He pulled back, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze, and smiled as he said, “See you later, Gin.”

She grinned.

After they had left, she turned and crouched down by the boy, Toby.

“Hi,” she said to him. “I’m Ginny.”

The boy, a slight creature with copper hair and brown eyes, tried to smile. It came out wavery and uncertain. “Toby. You’re Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

He seemed to consider that for a moment and then offered, “I’m Slytherin.”

Ginny smiled at the boy and said honestly, “It’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Harry dropped down to Snape’s side and pressed his hands to the torn wound at his throat. Blood swelled around his fingers, warm and thick and brilliantly scarlet. Red, so red, so wrongly red, Harry thought helplessly as he tried to staunch the flow. It shouldn’t be so red. No Slytherin should have to be so red.

His breath hiccuped in his chest. The dark, thick fabric of robes brushed against his arm and he looked up at Voldemort who raised an eyebrow at him.

“It would seem that with the proper encouragement, you _will_ kneel for me again.”

Harry’s heart shuddered to a stop and his entire body went cold. He stared at Voldemort, at his pale skin and his dark eyes and his slick smirk, and it was as if a veil lifted from his eyes and suddenly what he saw was the monster, the serpentine creature from the cemetery, the one who had killed Cedric without a thought. 

Hot blood pumped between his fingers, running in rivers to the ground, hot and so full of energy. Absolutely pulsing with pure energy. Snape was so full of energy, leaching out through his hands, against his knees, into the earth. Magic was only energy given purpose and here was so much of it.

He pressed his hands down harder and closed his eyes, and he saw the wound, the ragged edges of it, the bright shining magic running down from it. He gathered the magic as it pulsed from the wound, bright blue and green, shining like sapphires and emeralds, and he could feel his own magic reaching out, weaving together with what leached out of Snape. It was easy, so easy, natural, to take it into himself, and, quite suddenly, he could see how the edges of the wound could fit together once again. They were meant to be together, they wanted to be together, they were never meant to part, Harry could see that and they _did_ fit together, and it took so little to let the magic sew the edges of Snape’s wound together. 

He didn’t need a wand to harness the magic. All it wanted was him. He was the wand.

“Why fight me, Harry?” The dark, shadow outline of a man spoke, dark and purple like a deep bruise, sickly green with disease. “I know you. Why fight what you desire?”

Harry opened his eyes and gazed up at Voldemort He slowly rose to his feet. His hands dripped with bright red blood. His own voice sounded alien to his ears, as though it echoed back through a long tunnel, as he replied, “Can’t you understand? Even now?”

Voldemort stepped closer. “I know you love me. You have missed me these past weeks. I know it to be so.” 

He held out his empty arms and Harry could just imagine himself folded in their embrace. He would press his head against the man’s chest and listen to that heartbeat, the one that had soothed him to sleep after so many violent evenings. Voldemort had never touched him in anger, had never harmed him. Harry swayed on his feet and closed his eyes. He was so tired of fighting.

“Yes. Yes, Harry. Come. I’ll protect you.”

Harry took a step forward. He longed for that dreamless sleep, that safe feeling.

“Harry.”

_Harry, please. See him for what he is. Look._

He opened his mother’s eyes and found the man not two steps away from him. He recoiled sharply and grabbed his wand from where it had fallen and jerked it upwards. 

“No,” he said. _“No._ That’s over. I’m not going back to that. Never.”

Voldemort sighed. He flicked out his hand and his wand shot into his palm. He raised it and touched it to Harry’s.

“Shall we?”

Harry took a step back and squared his shoulders, setting his feet apart to brace himself. He nodded and held up his wand at the ready, but he closed his eyes and, again, found the magic swirling about and through him, deep and pulsating. His wand was merely a twig in his hand. His very skin was charged and at the ready. Voldemort’s thoughts swirled about him as though physical things, violence and desire and a thrumming need for power.

“Cruico.”

Harry flicked his hand and repelled the curse. Already, he saw the next forming in Voldemort’s mind, and he intercepted it too. 

He pushed into Voldemort’s mind, pushed deeper than he had ever done. A curse hit him; his body spasmed in pain, but he kept on. There were layers of hate. Layers of violence and blood. Harry swam through them; they coated him as thickly as Snape’s blood had – globules of gore dripping from his mind. Another bolt of crucio hit his body. He was dimly aware of the pain. He knew he was screaming. He could see his mother as she held him, turning her back to the curses, protecting him as well as she could. He kept pushing.

Voldemort’s mind fought him, pushing back, but Harry gritted his teeth and pushed harder. It was dark now, thick cobwebs caught at him, tangling in his hair. Harry ignored them. Somewhere in Voldemort’s mind was what would see his defeat. He had only to find it. He hoped he would know it when he did.

He pushed through a thick wall of crumbling ruins, while sharp, rusted nails cut into his skin, and as he crashed through to the other side, Voldemort roared in anger and threw images at him. His father, lying dead. His mother, dying. He saw helpless strangers undergoing horrendous tortures. He saw Severus, his skin stripped raw even as he begged for more. He saw himself, being buggered senseless by nameless Death Eaters. Voldemort had watched. Had _enjoyed_ watching.

Harry stumbled under the unslaught of images and fell through the floor, fell like Alice down the rabbit hole, as horrific memories sped past him at increasing speeds – blood and sharp blades and screams and sickly green magic. His body was wracked by _crucio_ yet again, and then again, and then again, each in quick succession. Harry felt as his heart stuttered within his body, which felt so distant as to no longer be his own, and his arm shot out and halted his fall. 

He climbed into a shadowy part of Voldemort’s mind. It was a long, dark hallway with no doors. The floor was cracked tiles, the paint of the walls peeled and above, bare bulbs flickered and swung through cobwebs. 

Another bolt of _crucio_ hit his body, but he felt nothing. He walked down the hallway and the floor buckled beneath him as Voldemort tried to expel him, but he kept his footing as he strode to the end of the dark, crumbling hallway. As he came to a solid wall, he knelt and pushed his hands into a small recess hidden in the shadows behind a thick, grasping cobweb, and he pulled out a small, dark box, secured by an old, rusty lock the size of his fist.

The walls of the hallway shook and broke apart around him, bricks and plaster crumbling around him, but Harry ignored it and grasped the lock in his hand and it opened smoothly, as if it had waited for him.

His body was wracked by another hard _crucio_ and his heart stuttered again, his vision going dark, and he heard Voldemort roar furiously, the cry echoing like thunder through the desolate hallway, but Harry ignored it all.

He opened the box.

Inside lay a beating heart, dark red and throbbing, and Harry lifted it from the box with both hands and cradled it for a moment.

The walls about him fell in massive chunks and Voldemort’s roar sounded like that of a loose beast.

Harry looked up and Voldemort stood over him, his mouth twisted in fury, his face skeletal. 

“Tom,” he pleaded. “Don’t make me kill you. Please.”

Voldemort pointed his wand at him, and distantly, Harry felt his body bend backward in pain. His vision greyed.

“Kill me? Harry Potter, do you never see your own end?” 

Another sharp bolt of pain wracked Harry’s body and his heart stuttered. Stopped.

Harry shook his head. Tears trickled down his face. “You really should have let me go, Tom,” he whispered and clenched his hands.

Voldemort jerked soundlessly. His mouth fell open; his eyes opened wide. He crushed Voldemort’s heart, tissue and blood mashing through his knuckles like thick jam, and the world around him faltered and darkened to nothingness.

Harry closed his eyes and fell backward into darkness.

A brilliant light exploded through him, and it felt as though he were plunged into icy water. Colours burst before him – pinks and blues and greens – and he gasped as he hit solid ground, his eyes flying open.

It was the world from his dreams, where everything was soft and changing and unreal. He pushed himself shakily to his feet. The ground felt solid enough under him, but looked as shifting as a mirage. 

“Hello, my dear boy.”

He spun and behind stood a shape of near formless light, so painfully bright, he shielded his eyes.

“Headmaster?” He squinted at the blurry form and, as if recognizing the voice was the key to understanding this place, the form took shape into Dumbledore, although his beard was snowy white and his robes were the same strange pinks and blues of the world around them. “What are you…? Where are we?”

Dumbledore looked around himself and smiled. “This is the Boundaries. The place between.”

“Between? Between what?”

“Life and death. Here and there. Before and after. This is the place to wait, for those who are not ready or for those whose fate is not yet decided.”

Harry let out a hard breath and looked around himself. It looked much the same and he couldn’t understand how anyone would choose to wait there.

“No one chooses to wait here, or…” Dumbledore laughed quietly. “Nearly no one. I have been waiting for you, Harry.”

“Am I – ” Harry sucked in a hard breath. “Is it over?”

“You have killed Tom Riddle, yes. But your fate is yet to be determined.”

Harry threw up his hands and spun away. The world shifted around him. “What more can there be? I gave everything! I did what was expected of me! What more do I have to do?”

“Choose.”

“Choose _what?_ What more could there possibly be left?”

Dumbledore stood still, his hands folded neatly before him, and smiled gently at him. “You must choose if you are to return or if you are to move on.”

Harry hesitated, “Do you… Do you mean die? Is that…” He looked around again and then turned back to Dumbledore. “Are you dead? Is that it?”

“My fate is decided, yes. I allowed Tom Riddle to corrupt me and I must pay the price for my failing.”

“But… it wasn’t you! He poisoned you, he… he violated you. He twisted you.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t all me, but some of it certainly was. I have been… I have seen what unchecked power can do and I was… I was terrified. Tom Riddle is my failing. I could have helped that boy, but his power, his charm, it was far too similar to what I have seen before. I thought I could – But no, no. I allowed him to become what he grew to be, and, as such, he has always been my responsibility.”

Dumbledore turned away. The world shifted blue about him, deep like the ocean. His shoulders rose and fell, and he turned back. He held out a hand, as though to put it to Harry’s shoulder, but the hand hung in the air. “I have been so very blind. I saw your power and I thought… I thought to use you. Power corrupts. I thought it inevitable. But,” the old man sighed and dropped his hand. “But perhaps not. Perhaps love and a pure heart is enough. You, who have an unimaginable capacity for love. I have done you such wrong.”

Harry ran his hand through his hair and turned away. “I… I don’t know if you want me to forgive you, but I… I can’t. I’m not sure if I ever will.”

“I have no expectations for forgiveness, my dear boy. None. I have done wrong by many, many people. Many, many people, and I deserve no forgiveness from anyone. I have twisted many people to my own, flawed ends, and no one save myself should be held responsible for what actions I have forced upon them.”

Harry’s mouth opened soundlessly, but Dumbledore shook his head.

“I need no words from you. You owe me nothing. Please know that I am proud of you, Harry. You have your mother’s strength and courage, and her boundless capacity for love. Her love saved you, a time or two, I think. She has been with you, did you know?” Dumbledore tapped his own forehead, in the approximation of Harry’s scar. “Here, just as Tom trapped a shard of himself within your scar, so too did a sliver of your mother’s love, of her soul, wound tightly about Tom’s soul. Her love has always been with you and will be with you so long as you need her protection.”

Harry put a hand up to his scar, his heart beating a furious tattoo within his chest, and Dumbledore smiled again.

“Love has toppled more kingdoms than time, and love can be a man’s undoing, but it will always be his making, as well.” 

He lifted his arms and to either side of him, a door appeared. One was the door to Hogwarts, thick carved wood and rimmed with stone arches. The other was plain and nondescript, but bright light shone around it, as though it held back the sun itself.

“You have a choice to make, my dear boy.”

“I…” Harry took a step back. “I can’t! I…”

“You cannot remain here. This is no place for you.”

“What about you?”

“As I said, my time has ended.” Dumbledore gestured toward the plain door. “My path is before me and I am ready for it. But you, your fate is entirely your own. There is much yet waiting for you, should you choose it.”

Harry glanced at the large door. “I don’t know. I am… I’m so tired.”

“You have certainly earned a rest, should that be your choice.”

“Can’t you – ?” Harry turned back to look at Dumbledore and pushed a shaking hand through his hair. “Tell me what I should do. I don’t know what I should do.”

Dumbledore reached a hand out again and Harry closed his eyes and stepped into it. Dumbledore curled his arm about Harry, who leaned heavily into the embrace, his eyes shut tight.

“My poor boy, you have endured so much and so much by my own choosing. But this is a choice I cannot make for you.”

Harry sighed and pressed his forehead against Dumbledore’s shoulder. They stood silently and the misty world swirled about them. There was no sound save their own breathing, and that, too, was muted.

Finally, Harry sucked in a breath and stepped away. He glanced at the plain door and then turned toward Hogwarts and reached out for the handle as he took a hesitant step toward it. He looked back at Dumbledore.

“Your story is not yet ended, Harry Potter.” Dumbledore lifted a hand in farewell. 

Harry nodded with a heavy heart, his entire body dragging like wet blankets, and he turned back toward the doors.

He reached forward, turned the handle and stepped through.

**Author's Note:**

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